Skip to main content

Full text of "The Works of Lord Byron: Including the Suppressed Poems : Also a Sketch of His Life"

See other formats


Google 



This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http: //books .google .com/I 



S' Theodore V. R. Brown. 

^r ^^^^^V^ ^^^^^^F ^W^^^W^ i^^^^WW ^v^^^^W ^^^^"^r OT^^^HV^ ^^^^"^r -^^^^^^f 4V^^W ImV^^w ^W^^^w^ J^^^^^Bt ^^^^^^V ^w^^'^p ff^MW .^•^^ 



**- 



W".^ 



<VsvOv\ 




N^ 



^ 



\ 



'■f J ( ■ 



. A. 



- f 



.;./'>< /'/ ^r^^ 



/ 



. ( 



*■ I ■ ■ '. 



. ■• ' /' 



/ 



7 ^ 



< •/ ' 



V 




\ 

X 






( 



THE 



/ 



GRIGG, ELLIOT & CO., 

No. U, NORTH KOVRTII ^^TKEET. 

1850. 



THE 



iy(D:B2^@ 



OF 



LORD BTRON, 



INCLUDUIO 



Slie Stt9Dvrfi(fi(e)i ^otmu. 



ALSO 



A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 



BY J. HIT. XiAKS. 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



. • • • i 



PHILADELPHIA: 

LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO., 

SUCCESSORS TO 

GRIGG, ELLIOT & CO., 

No. U, NORTH FOURTH STREET. 

1850. 



I ■ • • 



i 

• • ■ t 

• • ■ 



' . • • • • ,- • 
• * • • • . . 

k • • • • 



• I • . • 



* • 



THE NEV YC>;-K 

PUBLIC L 

9228)^1 A 






A^'- ■ i. 



■I ) 



Printed by T K. It P. G. C<>U 



CONTENTS. 



UTEorLOEtn bil 






^Kx;L"E.a; 






OGI.I^I 



HiANDSCOTC-H 



PILGKIMAnG 



fflll.DE IfAaOUf 

THEcr.imrB ■ - ■ 

'HI BlIDE or ABVDOB 

WEtokaie - ■ 

L«.i .'.'.'.. 

THE IrtiT. OF Ml NEB V A 
I^l: SIEGE OF COniNTtI 

Km 

hllMNA .... 

THEPllsONeR OF CII1LL0.1 



MUMNAr ALL'S 



REVIE1VERB 



TilETWOFOaCABl 



THF. DKrORMED TRANSFOEXED ■ 
HBAVF.NAXDP^RTH . - 
THR FRUPIIEOY OF DANTt! 

THE IJJl.AND . - - 

THEAaEOFBRnNZE - - 
k-|SlllS OF JUDGMENT 
MORRANTE UAOGIORB ■ 



Ff-mJ^b""-""" '^ - 
.tl^'KU-ANEOrs POEMB 












|>tU^tn«>Ui| 




HINTS FBOH HORACE ■ 
AlKimONB TO THE HOURS OF 
Ob ■ ^iiiii ••m <it Ilia Vilta«i ind S 

rrimS m'-LKMofii liillH nI 

' n iteDwhaTaYauDt I^dr 



^Si 



UniXLLANeOCB POEMS. 

ft^ThM ArtnrHin<M. Id ib 



T\>ThaiD»M«>n! 
goanrt in Grnif i tka Fan 
^nuttakHwIiDbMean gndcnu 

SI" :"; ; 

7^1 ikr Auhni er a Sunun 
TohOjV « Nt«it>'d ' 

Wliiik>l|-dJ<4inKrgu - - 
BnnifnilkaLuiUiln 

Ktfliph'Sr Jwirfi BlHrknit 
{l^'i'al.Lib-'l.Einc. i. 



ilHimm. nmn Ibc FrcnrJi of 

teCH,.,,™,;, 



Tf>7cr..itTB«ir' 

RlHIran.. - . 



SAe JLiff Of ILot^ Hfirotf 



BY J. W. LAKE. 



0*er the harp, from earliest years hcloved, 
lie threw his finj^ers hurriedly, and tunes 
Of melanclioly beauty died away 
Upon its strings of sweetness. 



It was reserved for tlie present age to pro- 
■ ijce oncdistiDjyruishcd example of the Aiiise 
ia\ iiiir descended upon a bard of a wounded 
spirit/ and lent her lyre to tell afflictions of 
iiDonlinurydeiicription; afflictions originating 
prohahly in that singular combination of fecU 
m:; with imagination which has been called 
the poetical temperament, and which has so 
often saddened tne davs of tliose on whom it 
hk.s been conferred. If ever a man was enti- 
tled to lay claim to that character in all its 
streiisth and all its weakness, with its un- 
boundod ran^c of enjoyment, and its exquisite 
tenMhi i it V nf pleasure' and of pain, that man 
was Loni Hyron. Nor does it remi ire much 
time, or a deep acquaintance witli human na- 
ture, to discover why tliese extraordinary 
pi I wens should in so many cases have con- 
tributed more to the wretchedness than to the 
hajjjpinesfl of their possessor. 

The " imagination all compact," which the 
^nr.itc«it |)oet who ever lived has assigned as 
t)ie distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in 
cvcr\' ca.se a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, 
indt'cil, our expectations, and can often bid 
it* pfHViMir hojie, where hope is lost to reason; 
but the delusive pleasure arising from these 
viMODs of imagination, resembles that of a 
child whose notice is attracted by a fragment 
of !;lass to which a sunbeam has given mo- 
mentary splendour. lie hastens to the spot 
with breatidess impatience, and finds that the 
ol>ject of his cunosity and exi)cctation is 
eciually vulgar and worthless. Such is t)ie 
man of c^uick and exalted powers of imagina- 
tion : liis fancy over-estimates the object of 
lii.<» wishes; and pleasure, (amo, distinction, 
are alternately pursued, attained, and despised 
when in his power. Like the enchanted fniit 
in the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his 
adrninilion lose their attraction and value as 
soon as they are grasped by tlie adventurer's 
hand ; and all tliat remains is regret for the 
time lost in the chase, and wonder at the hal- 
lucination under the influence of which it was 
undertaken. The disproportion between hope 
and [Ki<»ession, which is telt by all men, is thus 
doubled to tliose whom nature has endowed 
with tlie power of gilding a distant prospect 
by the niys of imainnation. 

'We think that many points of resemblance 
may be traced between Byron and Rousseau. 
Both are distinguished by the most ardent and 
vivid delineation of intense conception, and 
>iv n deep sensibility of passion rather than of 
:ir1irtJon. Botli too, by this double power, 
Ui\c lield a dominion over the sympathy of 
▲ 2 



their readers, far beyond the ranee of thoM 
ordinary feelings which are Ubually excited 
by the mere efforts of genius. The impressran 
or this interest still accompanies the perusal 
of their writings; but there is another interest, 
of more lasting and far stronger power, which 
each of them possesscil, — which lies in the 
continual cmboayingof the individual charac- 
ter, it might almost oe said of the very person 
of tlie writer. When we speak or think of 
Rousseau or Byron, we are not conscious of 
speaking or thinking of an author. We have 
a vague but impassioned remembrance of men 
of surpassing genius, eloquence, and power^ — 
of prodigious capacity both of miser]^ ttnd 
happiness. We feel as if we had transiently 
met stich beings in real life, or had known 
them in the dim and dark communion of a 
dream. Each of their works presents, in suc- 
cession, a fresh idea of themselves ; and, while 
tlie productions of other great men stand ont 
frotn ^bem, like something they have created, 
theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures 
busts of their living selves, — clothed, no doubt, 
at different times, in different drapery, and 
prominent from a different back-ground, — but 
uniformly impressed with the same form, and 
mien, and lineaments, and not to be mistaken 
for tlie representations of any otlier of the 
children of men. 

But this view of the subject, though univer- 
sally felt to be a tnie one, requires perhaps a 
little explanation. The personal character of 
which we have spoken, it should be under- 
stood, is not altogether that on which the seal 
of life has been set, — and to which, therefore, 
moral approval or condemnation is necessa- 
rily annexed, as to the language or conduct 
of actual existence. It is the character, m to 
speak, which is prior to conduct, and yet 
open to good and to ill, — the constitution' of 
the being in both' and in soul. Each of these 
illustrious writers has, in this light, filled his 
works with expressions of his own character. 
— has unveile<l to the world the secrets of his 
own being, the mysteries of the framing of 
man. They have gone down into those depths 
which every man may sound for himself, 
though not for another; and they have made 
disclosures to the world of what they beheld 
and knew then* — disc^losures that have com- 
manded and forced a pn)found and uiiiverwd 
sympathy, by proving that all mankind, the 
trouoled and the untroubled, the lofty and the 
low, the stnnicrest ami the frailest, are linked 
together by the bonds of a common but in- 
scrutable liature. 



f. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



Thus, each of these wa^^ward and richly- 
ffiftctl spirits mode liirnsoll the ohjcct of pro- 
found interest to the world, and that too dur- 
ing periods of society when ample food was 
ever}' wherc spread abroad for the meditations 
and passions of men. 

Althouirh of widely dissimilar fortunes and 
birth, a close resemblance in their passions 
and their genius may be traced t«x) l)etween 
liyron and Robert Burns. Their careers 
were short and glorious, and they both perish- 
ed in the" rich summer of their life and song," 
and in all the splendour of a reputation mort^ 
likely to increase than diminish. One was a 
|>ea8ant, and the other was a peer; but nature 
18 a ^rcat leveller, and makes amends for the 
injuries of fortime by the richness of her 
benefactions: tlie genius of Burns rai««ed him 
tea level with the nobles of the land; by na- 
ture, if not by birtli, he was the peer of Byron. 
They both rose by the force of their genius, 
and both fell by the strength of their passions; 
one wrote from a love, and tlie other from a 
acorn of mankind; and tiiey both sung of the 
emotions of tlieir own hearts, with a vehe- 
mence and an originality which few have 
equalled, and none surely have surpassed. 

The versutililv of authors who have been 
able to draw ancf support characters as differ- 
ent from each other as from their own, lias 
given to their productions the inexpressible 
charm of variety, and has often secured them 
from that netrlect which in general attends 
what is terhnirallv called mannerism. But it 
was rc9er\*ed for Lord Byron (previous to his 
Don Juan) to present the same character on 
the public sta^e again nnd again, varie>J only 
oy the exertions of that powerful genius, 
which, search iniT the springs of passion and 
of feeling in their innermost recesses, knew 
how to combine tlieir operations, so that the 
interest was eternally varj'ing, and never 
abated, although the most important person 
of ihe drama retained the same lineaments. 

" But that noble tree will never more bear 
fruit or blossom I It has been cut down in its 
strength, and the past is all that remains to us 
of Byron. That voice is silent for ever, which, 
bursting so frc<juently on our ear, was often 
heard with ra|)turous adminition, sometimes 
with regret, but always with the deepest in- 
terest."^— Yet the impression of his works stiU 
remains vivid and stnmg. The charm which 
cannot pass away is there,— life breathing in 
dead wonls — the stern grandeur — tl»e intense 
power and energy — the fresli beauty, the un- 
ci immed lustre — the immortal bloom*, and ver- 
dure, and fragrance of life, all tliose still are 
there. But it was not in these alone, it was in 
that continual impersonation of himself in his 
writings, by which he was lor ever kept 
brightly bel()re tlie eyes of men. 

It mfjjht, at fii-st, sei'm tliat his undisguised 
revelation of feelinjis and passions, wliich the 
becoming pride of human nature, jealous of 
its own dignity, wo'ild in general desire to 
liold in unviolated silence, could have pm- 
duced in the public mind only pity, sorrow, 
or rcpuffnance. But in the case of men of 
real genius, like Byron, it is otlicrwise : tliey 



are not felt, while we read, as d<.>rhiiations 
published to the world, but almost as .secrets 
whispered to chosen ears. Who is there that 
feels for a moment, that the voice which 
reaches tlie inmost recesses of his heart is 
speakinir to the careless multitudes around 
him? Or if we do so remember, the wonls 
seem to pass by others like air, and tr) find 
their way to tlie hearts for whom they were 
intended ; kindred and sympathetic spirits, 
who discern and own that secret lanjinaije, 
of which the privacy is not violat<'d, though 
spoken in hearing of the uninitiated, because 
it is not understoo<l. A great poet may ad- 
dress the whole world, in tiie language of 
intensest passion, concerning objects of which 
rather than speak face to face with any one 
human being on earth, he would ])ei'i^h in his 
misery. P^or it is in solitude that he utters 
what is to be wafted by all the winds of heaven: 
there are, during his mspiration, present with 
him only the shadows of men. lie is not 
daunted, or perplexed, or disturbed, or repel- 
led, by real, living, breathing featun^s. He 
con updraw just as much of the curtain as he 
chooses, that hangs between his own solitude 
and the world of life. He there pours his soul 
out, partly to himself alone, partly to tlie ideal 
abstractions and impersonated images that 
float around him at his own conjuration: and 
partly to human }>eings like himst If, moving 
in the dark distance of the every-day world. 
lie confesses himself, not before men, but 
before the spirit of humanity ; and he thus 
fearlessly lays open his heart, assure<l that 
nature never prompted unto /genius thiit wliich 
will not triumphantly force its wide way into 
the human heart. 

We have admitted that Byron has depicted 
much of himself, in all his heroes; but when 
we seem to see the poet shadowed out in all 
those states of disordered being which his 
Childe Harolds, Giaours, C'onrads, Lams, and 
Alps exhibit, we are far from believing that 
his own mind has gone through tliose states 
of disorder, in its own experience of life. We 
merely conceive of it, as having felt within 
itself the capacity of such disorders, and there- 
fore exhibiting ftself before us in possiliility. 
This is not general, — it is rare with great 

Koets. Neither Homer, nor Shak<.iK*are, nor 
lilt on, ever so show themselves in the cha- 
racters which they pourtray. Their pcu'tical 
personages have no references to themselves, 
nut are distinct, independent creatures of 
their minds, produced in the full freedom of 
intellectual power. In Byron, there docs not 
seem tliis freedom of power — there is little 
appropriation of character to events. Charac- 
ter is first, and all in all; it is dictated, com- 
pelled by some force in his own mind — ne- 
cessitatiiiir him, — and the events ol)ey. Hi? 
poems, therefore, excepting Don Juan, arc 
not full and complete narrations of R(»me one 
definite stor\', containing within itself a pic- 
ture of human life. They are merely bold, 
confused, and turbulent exemplificatmns of 
certain sweeping energies and irresistible 
passions: they are fragments of a point's dark 
dream of life. The vcr}' personages, vivklU 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



Vll 



IS they are pictured, are vet felt to be ficti- 
:iou?, and derive their cliicf power over us 
from their supposed mysterious coDnoxion 
w'vAi the poet Innisclf, and, it may be added, 
with each other. Tlie law of lus mind was to 
emlKxiy his i)eculiar feelings in tlie forms of 
Dther men. In all his heroes we recoj^nise, 
though with infinite modifications, the same 
^rcat cliaracteristics: a lii^h and audacious 
conception of tlie power of the mind, — an in- 
tense sensibihtv of passion, — an almost bound- 
less capacity o( tumultuous emotion, — a boast- 
inpr admiration of the mudeur of disordered 
power, and, above all, a soul-felt, blood-felt 
delight in beauty — a beaut>', which, in his 
wild creation, is often scared away from tlie 
a^tated surface of life by stormier passions, 
but which, like a bird of calm, is for ever re- 
turning, on its soft, silvery wings, ere tlie 
black swell has finally subsided into sunshine 
and peace. 

These reflections naturally precede tlie 
sketch we are about to attempt of Lord By- 
ron's literary and private life : indeed, they 
are in a manner forced ui)on us by his poetry, 
by the sentiments of weariness of existence 
and enmity with tlie world which it so fre- 
quently expresses, and by the sin^lar analo- 
cy which such sentiments hold with the real 
incidents of his life. 

Ijord Byron was descended from an illus- 
trious line of ancestry. From the pericxl of 
the Conquest, his family were disting[uished, 
not merely for their extensive manors in Lan- 
cashire and other parts of tlie kingdom, but 
for their prowess in arms. John de Byron 
attended Edward the First in several warlike 
expeditions. Two of the Byrons fell at tlie 
liattle of Cressy. Another member of the 
family. Sir John de Byron, rendered good 
lervice in Bosworth field to the Earl of Itich- 
mond, and contributed by his valour to trans- 
fer tlie crown from the bead of Richard the 
rhird to tliat of Henry the Seventh. This Sir 
John was a man of honour, as well as a brave 
warrior. Ho was very intimate with his neigh- 
bour SirCiervase Crifton; and, although By- 
ron fought under Henry, and Clifton under 
Richard, it did not diminish their friendship, 
but, on the contrary, put it to a severe test. 
Previous to the battle, the prize of which w»as 
a kingdom, they had mutually promised that 
whichever of them was vanquished, the other 
^liould endeavour to prevent the forfeiture of 
his friend's estate. W hilc Clifton was bravelv 
fiahtinir at the hrad of his tnM)p, he was struck 
oif hi« hor«e. which Byron perceiving, he 
ouitlefl the nnkr., and ran to the relief ot his 
friend, wlioai he shic^lded, hut who died in his 
arm«. Sir Jchn de Bymn kept his word: he 
interceded with the kinj: the estate was pre- 
gf'rred to the Clifton f;irnilv, and is now in the 
poviession of a dcH'eiidant of Sir Gervase. 

In the wars lietween Charles the First and 
the Parliament, the Byrons adliered to the 
royal cause. Sir Nicholas Bvron, the eldest 
brother and representative of the family, was 
an eminent loyalist, who, having distinguished 
himself in the wars of the I^w Countries, 
was appointed governor of Chelsea, in 1642. 



He had two sons, who both died without issue; 
and his younger brother. Sir John, became 
their heir. Ttiis person was made a Knight 
of the Bath, at the coronation of Jamc. '.W 
First. He had eleven sons, most of < luui 
distinguished themselves for their loyali / i.inl 
gallantry on the side of Charles the '• »>» 
Seven of these brothers were enga^i>d .no 
battle of Marston.-moor, of whom four fell in 
defence of tlie royal cause. Sir John Byron, 
one of the survivors, was appointed to many 
important commands, and on tlie 26th of Oc- 
tober, 1643, was created Lord Byron, witli a 
collateral remainder to his brotliers. On tlie 
decline of the king's affairs, he was appointed 
governor to the Duke of York, and, in this 
office, died witliout issue, in France, m 1652; 
upon which his brother Richard, a celebrated 
cavalier, became the second Lord Byron. He 
was governor of Appleby Castle, and distin- 
guished himself at Newark. He died in 1697, 
aged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his 
eldest son William, who married Elizabeth, 
the daughter of John Viscount Chawortli, of 
tlie kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five 
sons, all of whom died young, except William, 
whose eldest son, William, was born in 1722, 
and came to the title in 1736. 

William, Lord Byron, passed the early part 
of his life in tlie navy. ]n 1 763, he was made 
master of the stag-hounds ; and in 1 765, was 
sent to the Tower, and tried before the Housp 
of Peers, for killing his relation and neigh- 
bour, Mr. Chawortn, in a duel. — The follow 
ing details of this fatal event are peculiarly 
interesting, from subsequent circumstances 
connected with the subject of our sketch. 

The old Lord Byron belonged to a club, of 
which Mr. Chaworth was also a member. It 
met at the Star and Garter tavern. Pall Mall, 
once a month, and was called the Nottingham- 
shire Club. On the 29th January, 1765, they 
met at four o'clock to dinner as usual, and 
every thing went agreeably on, until about 
seven o'clock, when a dispute arose betwixt 
Lonl Byron and Mr. Chaworth, concerning 
the quantit}' of game on their estates. The 
dispute n)se to a high pitch, and Mr. Cha- 
worth, having paid his share of tiie bill, retired. 
Lord Byron followed him out of the room in 
which they had dined, and, stopping him on 
the landing of the stairs, called to the waiter 
to show them into an empty room. They were 
shown into one, and a single candle being 

C laced on the table, — in a few minutes the 
ell was ning, and Mr. Chaworth found mor- 
tally woimde<l. lie said that I>ord Byron and 
he entered the nx»m together. Lord Bvron 
leading tlie way; that his lonlsliip, in walkini; 
forward, said something relative to the fonner 
dispute, on which he nropo«^ed fastening the 
door; tliat on turning mnisrlf round from thi* 
act, lie perceived his lordship witli his sword 
half drawn, or nearly so: on which, knowing 
his man, he instantly drew his own, and made 
a thrust at him^ which he thought had wouniU 
ed or killed him; that then, perceiving his 
lordship shorten his sword to return the thnikt. 
he tliought to have parried it with his left han»l: 
that he felt the sword enter his body, and gv 



VIII 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



Heep through his back; that he stru^Icd, and 
t>Ginfj^ the stronger man, disarmed his lordship, 
and expressed a concern, as under llic apprc- 
nension of having mortaHy wounded him; 
that Lord IJyron replied by saying something 
to the like effect, adding' at the samo time, 
Oiat he hoped ^^ he would now allow him to 
be as hmve a man as any in the kingdom." 

For this offence he was unanimously con- 
victed of manslaughter, but, on being brought 
up for judgment, pleaded his privilege as a 
peer, and was, in consequence, nischarged. 
Afler tins affair he was abandoned by his rela- 
tions, and retired to Newstead Abbey; where, 
though he lired in a state of perfect exile from 
persons of his own rank, his unhappy temper 
found abundant exercise in continual war 
with his neighbours and tenants, and sufficient 
punishment in their hatred. One of his amuse- 
mcntB was feeding crickets, which were his 
only companions. He had made them so tame 
as to crawl over him ; and used to whip them 
with a wisp of straw, if too familiar, in this 
forlorn condition he lingered out a long life, 
doing all in his power to ruin the paternal 
mansion for that dther branch of the family' 
to which he was aware it must pass at his 
death, all his own children having descended 
before him to the grave. 

John, the next brother to William, and born 
in the year afler him, that is in 17^23, was of a 
very different disposition, alUiough his career 
in life was almost an unbroken scene of mis- 
fortunes. The hardships he endured while 
accompanying Commoaore Anson in his ex- 
pedition to the South Seas, arc well known, 
from his own highly popular and affecting 
narrative. His only son, bom in 1751, who 
«*eceivod an excellent education, and whose 
father procured for him a commission in the 

fuards, was so dissipated that he was known 
y the name of" mad Jack Byron." He was 
one of the handsomest men of his time : but 
his character was so notorious, that his father 
f IS obliged to desert him, an! his com|jany 
was shunned by the better oart of society. 
Tji his twenty-seventh year, he seduced the 
Marchioness of Cannartlieu, who had been 
but a few years married to a husband with 
whom she l^ad lived in the most happy state, 
until she formed this unfortunate connexion. 
Afler imc fruitless attempt at reclaiming his 
lady, the Marquis obtained a divorce ; and a 
marriage was brouglit about between her and 
her seducer; which, afler the most brutal 
c^ondiict on his part, and the greatest miser\' 
and keenest remorse on hers, was dissolved 
in two years, by her sinking to the grave, the 
victim of a broken heart. About three years 
subsequently, Captain Byron soun^ht to recruit 
his fortunes by matrimony, and having made 
a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an 
Abenleen«!hire heiress (lineally descended 
from the Eat I of Huntley and the Princcjjs 
Jane, daughter of James! I. of Scotland,) he 
united himsel^'to her, ran through her proper- 
ty in a few years, and, leaving her and her 
only < hild, the subject of this memoir, in a 
deslitute and defenceless state, fled to France 



to avoid his creditors, and died at Valencien 
nes, in 1791. 

In Captain Medwin's " Conversations d* 
Lord Byron," the following expressions art 
said to have fallen from \iit> lordship, on tli« 
subject of his unworthy father; — 

'* I lost my father when I was only six years 
of age. My mother, when she was in a rage 
with me fand I ^^nvf* her cause enough,) used 
to say, *Ah! you little dog, you are a Byron 
all over; v«>u*are as bad as yonr father!' It 
was ver\' different from Mrs.*Malaprop'8 say- 
ing, 'An! ^'ood dear Mr. Malaprop! I never 
loved him till he was dead.' But, in fa<;t, my 
father was, in his youth, any thing but a 
* Ciplebs in search of a wife.' He would have 
made a bad hero for Hannah More. He ran 
out three fortunes, and married or ran away 
with three women; and once wanted a guinea 
that he wrote for : I have the note. He seem- 
ed born for his own ruin, and that of the other 
sex. He began by seducing Lady Carmar- 
then, and spent for her four thousand pounds 
a-year; and, not content with one adventure 
of this kind, aflerwards eh)ped with Miss 
Gordon. This marriage was not dcstinetl lo 
be a ver\' fortunate one either, and I don't 
wonder at her differing from Sheridan's widow 
in the play; they certainly could not have 
claime(l * the flitcb.' " 

George Byn)ii Gordon (for so he was called 
on account of the neglect liis father's family 
had shown to his mother) was born at Dover, 
on the *Z'ld of January, I7(;8. On the unnatu- 
ral desertion of his father, the entire care of 
his infant years devolved upon his mother 
who retired to Aberdeen, where she lived in 
almost perfect seclusion, on the ruins of her 
fortune. Her undivided affection was natu- 
rally concentred in her son, who was he* 
darling; and when he only went out for Lu 
ordinary walk, she would entreat him, with 
the tear glistening in her eye, to take care of 
himself, as " she had nothing on earth but him 
to live for;" a conduct not at all pleasing to 
his adventurous spirit; the more especially 
as some of his companions, who witnessed iM 
affectionate scene, would laugh and ridicule 
him about it. This excessive niaternal indul- 
gence, and the absence of that salutary disci- 
pline and control so necessar>' to childhood, 
doubtless contributed to the formation of tlie 
less pleasing features of Lonl Byron's charac- 
ter. It must, however, be rernembere^l, in 
Mrs. Byron's extenuation, not ordy that tlie 
circumstances in which she had been Icfl with 
her son were of a very peculiar nature, but 
also that a slight malformation of one of his 
feet, and great weakness of constitution, na 
turally solicited for him in the heart of a mo 
ther a more than oro nary portion of tender 
ness. For these latter reasons, he was not seiit 
ver>' early to school, but was al!owe<l to ex 
pand his lungs, and hn<ce his limbs, Tipon the 
mountains of the neighbourhood. This was 
evidently the most judicious method for inu 
parting strength to his bodily franie: and the 
sefpiel showed that it was far fn>m the worsi 
for giving tone and vigour to his mind. Hie 



Lutiii OP LORD BiTRON. 



IX 



nvige erandeur of nature around him ; the 
keUng Uiat he was upon hilU where 

" Fore^pi tyrant never trod, 
But Freedom with'her (kulchkm bngfat. 
Swept the Strang from ber ligbt ; v 



u intercourse with a people whose chief 
musements consisted in the recital of heroic 
Jes of other times, feats of strength, and a 
isplay of independence, blended with the 
ikl supernatural stories peculiar to remote 
id thinly-peopled districts; — all these were 
ilculated to foster that poetical feeling innate 
I his character. 

When George was seren years of age, his 
inther sent him to the grammar-school at 
berdeen, where he remained till his removal 
I Harrow, with the exception of some inter- 
ns of absence, which were deemed rec{uisite 
ir the establishment of his health. His pro- 
ress beyond that of the general run or his 
lass- fellows, was never so remarkable as 
fter those occasional intervals, when, in a few 
2VS, he would master exercises which, in the 
rfiool routine, it had required weeks to ac-. 
9mpli^h. But when he had overtaken the 
>!tt of the class, he always relaxed his cxer- 
uns, and, contenting himself with being con- 
dered a tolerable scholar, never made any 
xtraordinary effort to place himself at the 
ead of the highest form. It was out of school 
lat he aspired to be the leader of every thing; 
1 all boyish games and amusements, he would 
e first' if possible. For this he was emi- 
ently calculated; quirk, enterprising, and 
arinff, the energy of his mind enabled him 
) overcome the impediments which nature 
ad thrown in his way. Even at that early 
eno<l (from eight to ten years of age], all his 
[)ort«< were of a manly character; fishing, 
liootinsr, swimming, and managing a horse, 
r «i(H>nnff and trimming the sails of a boat, 
onMitutcti his chief delights, and, to the super- 
,cial olwervcr, seemed his sole occupations. 

He was exceedingly brave, and in the ju- 
enile wars of the school, he generally gained 
he virtory; upon one occasion, a Soy pur- 
iied by another took refuge in Mrs. Byron's 
»ou««o : the latter, who had been much anused 
»y th«* former, proceeded to take vengeance 
III him even on the landing-placcof the draw- 
nir-nM»m stairs, when George interposed in 
li*. dpfi-nce, declaring that nobody should be 
Il-uM»d while under his roof and protection, 
'pon this the aggressor dared him to fight; 
iiid, althnuffh tfie former was by much the 
trongfr of tlie two, the spirit of young Byron 
ras so determined, that after the combat had 
aMe<l for nearly two hours, it was suspend- 
h\ because both the bo>'8 were entirely ex- 
lan^ted. 

A •'Cliool-fellow of Byron had a very small 
•lictlaiid pony, which his father had ))ought 
lim : and on#» day they went to the banks of 
he Don to bathe ; but having only one pony, 
h<*y were obliged to follow the good old prac- 
ire called in Scotland ** ride and tie." When 
:li€y rame to tlie bridge over that dark ro- 
Tiahtic stream, Byron i)ethought him of the 



^ Brig of Bilgounie, Uadt't yov wo*; 
Wi* a wife*! ae mm and a mew's mfod^ 
Doun je shall fa*.** 

He immediately stopped bis companion, who 
was then riding, ano asked him it he remem- 
bered the propnecy, saying, that as they were 
both only sons, and as the pony might oe ** a 
mare's ae foal,'* he would rather ride over first ; 
because he had only a mother to lament him, 
should the prophecy be fulfilled by the falling 
of the bridge, whereas the other had both a 
father and a mother to grieve for him. 

It is the custom of the grammar-school at 
Aberdeen, that the boys of all the five classes 
of which it is composed, should be assembled 
for prayers in the public school at eight o'clock 
in tne morning ; after prayers, a censor calls 
over the names of all, and those who are ab- 
sent are punished. The first time that Lord 
Byron had come to school after his accenion 
to his title, the rector had caused his name to 
be insertcil in the censor's book, Georgius 
Dominus de Byron, instead of G?orgiu8 Byron 
Gordon, as formerly. The boys, unaccus- 
tomed to this aristocratic sound, set up a loud 
and involuntary shout, which had such an ef- 
fect on his sensitive mind that he burst into 
tears, and would have fled from the school, 
had he not been restrained by the master. 

An answer which I^rd Byron made to a 
fellow scholar, who questioneid him as to the 
cause of the honorary addition of ^' Dominus 
de Byron" to his name, served at that time, 
when he was only ten years of age, to point 
out that he would be a man who would think, 
speak, and act for himself— who, whatever 
might be his sayings or his doings, his vice» 
or his virtues, would not condescend to tak<* 
them at second-hand. This happened on the 
very day after he had been menaced with being 
flogged round the school for a fault which he 
had not committed : and when the question 
was put to him, he replied, " it is not my do- 
ing; Fortune was to whip me yeste-xiay for 
what another did, and she has this day made 
me a lord for what another has ceased to do. 
I need not thank her in either case, for I have 
asked nothing at her hands.'* 

On the 17th of May, 179fi, William, the fifth 
Lord Byron, departed this life at Newstead. 
As the son of this eccentric nobleman had died 
when George was five years old, and as the 
descent both of the titles and estates was to 
heirs male, the latter, of course, succeeded 
his great-uncle. Upon this change of fortune, 
Lord Bvron, now ton years of age, was re- 
moved from the imrnrdiate care of his mother 
and placed as a wan! under the guanlianship 
of the Earl of Carlisle, wliose father had mar- 
ried Isabella, the sister of tlie preceding Lonl 
Byron. In one or two points of character, 
this great-aunt resemble<! the hard : she also 
wrote beautiful p<K'tr\', and alltiT adorning the 
gav and ftishionablo world for many years, she 
left it without any apparent cause, and with 
perfect indifference, and in a great measui-e 
secluded lierself from soriety. 

Tlie young nobleman's guardian decided 
that he should receive the usual education 



)ruphecv which be has qnoiod in Don Juan: given to England's titled sons, and that be 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



should, in the first instance, be sent to the 
public school at Harrow. He was accord- 
ingly placed there under the tuition of the 
Rev. Dr. Drury, to whom he has testified his 
gratitude in a note to the fourth canto of 
Childe Harold, in a manner which does equal 
honour to the tutor and the pupil. A change 
of scene and of circumstances so unforeseen 
and so rapid, would have been hazardous to 
any boy, out it was doubly so to one of Byron's 
ardent mind and previous habits. Taken at 
once from the society of boys in humble life, 
and placed among voutlis of his own newly- 
acquired rank, with means of gratification 
which to him must have appeared considera- 
ble, it is by no means surprising that he should 
have been betrayed into every sort of extrav- 
agance : none of them appear, however, to 
have been of a very culpable nature. 

'* Though he was lame," says one of his 
school- fellows, " he was a ^eat lover of sports, 
and preferred hockey to Horace, relinquished 
even Helicon for ' duck-puddle,' and gave up 
the best poet that ever wrote hard Latin for 
a game of cricket on the common. He was 
not remarkable (nor was he ever) for his learn- 
ing, but he was always a clever, plain-spokf^n, 
and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight by 
the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against 
the disadvantage of his lameness with all the 
spirit of an ancient combatant. ' Don't you 
remember your battle with Pitt ?' (a brewer's 
son) said I to him in a letter (for I had wit- 
nessed it), but it seems that he had forgotten 
it. ' You are mistaken, I think,' said he in 
reply ; * it must have been with Rice-Pud- 
ding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the 
Douglases, or George Raynsford, or Pryce 
(with whom I had two conflfcts), or with Moses 
Moore (the cJod\ or with somebody else, and 
not with Pitt ; (or with all the above-named, 
and other worthies of the fist, had I an inter- 
change of black eyes and bloody noses, at 
various and sundry periods ; however it may 
have happened for all that.' " 

The annexed anecdotes are characteristic : 

The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in 
their wisJom had resolved to set fire to the 
scene of all tlieir ills and troubles-|-the school- 
room : Byron, however, was against the mo- 
tion ; and by pointing out to tlie young rebels 
the names of tljcir fathers on the walls, he 
prevented the intended conflagration. This 
early specimen of his power overtlie passions 
of his school-fellows, his lordship piqued him- 
self not a little upon. 

Byron long retained a friendship for several 
of his Harrow school-fellows; Lord Clare was 
one of his constant correspondents ; Scroope 
Davies was also one of his chief companions, 
before his lordship went to the continent. 
This gentleman and Byron once lost all their 
money at ** chicken lr.izard," in one of the 
hells of St. .Tamcs's, and the next morning 
Davies sent for Byron's pistols to shoot him- 
self with : Byron sent a note refusing to give 
them, on the ground that they would be for- 
feited as a deodand. This comic excuse had 
ihe desired effect. 

Byron, whilst living at Newstead during 



the Harrow vacation, saw and became en 
amoured of Miss Chaworth : she is tlie Mary 
of his poetry, and his beautiful " Dream" re- 
lates to their loves. Miss Chaworth was oWei 
than his lordship by a few years, was light 
and volatile, and though, no doubt, highly fiat 
tered by his attachment, yet she treated om 

Eoet less as an ardent lover than as a youngei 
rother. She was punctual to the assignations 
which took place at a gate dividing the groundi 
of the Byrons from the Chaworths, and ac- 
cepted his letters from the confidants; but bet 
answers^ it is said, were written with more of 
the caution of coquetiy than the romance ol 
" love's young dream ;" she gave him, how 
ever, her picture, but her hand was reserved 
for another. 

It was somewhat remarkable that I^ord 
Byron and Miss Chaworth should both have 
been under the guardianship of Mr. White. 
This gentleman particularly wished that hit 
wards should be married together ; but Mia 
C, as young ladies generally do in such cir- 
cumstances, differed from him, and was re- 
solved to please herself in the choice df a 
husband. The celebrated Mr. M., commonly 
known by the name of Jack M., was at thu 
time quite the rage, and Miss C. was not subtie 
enough to conceal the penchant she had for 
thisNack-a-<2am/v/ ^^^ though Mr. \V. took 
her from one watering-place to anotlier, stiD 
the lover, like an evil spirit, followed, and 
at last, being somehow more persuasive thao 
the " child of song," he carried off the lady 
to the great grief of Lord Byron. The roar 
riage, bowever, was not a happy one ; the 
parties soon separated, and Mrs. M. after- 
wards proposed an interview with her former 
lover, which, by the advice of his sister, be 
declined. 

From Harrow Lord Byron was removed, 
and entered of Trinity College, Cambridge ; 
there, however, he did not mend his manners, 
nor hold the sages of antiquity in higher es- 
teem than when under the command of his 
reverend tutor at Harrow. He was above 
studying the poetics, and held the niles of the 
Stagyrite in as little esteem as in after-life he 
did the " invariable principles" of the Rev. 
Mr. Bowles. Reading after the fashion of the 
studious men of Cam, was to him a bore, and 
he held a senior wrangler in the greatest con- 
tempt. Persons of real genius are seldom 
candidates for college prizes, and Byron left 
" the silver cup" for those plodding characters 
who, perhaps, deserve them, as the guerdon 
of the unceasing labour necessar>' to over- 
come the all but invincible natural dullness 
of their intellects. Byron, instead of reading 
what pleased tutors, read what pleased him- 
self, and wrote what could not fail to displease 
those political weathercocks. He did not ad- 
niire tneir system of education ; and thoy, as 
is the case with most scholars, could admire 
no other. He took to quizzing them, and no 
one likes to be laughed at; doctors frowned, 
and fellows fumed, and jByron at the age of 
nineteen left the university without a degree. 

Among other means which he adopted to 
show liis contempt for academical honours 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



XI 



kept a younff bear in his room for some 
ie. which he told all Ids friends he was train- 

1 up for a fellowship ; but, however much 
? fellows of Trinity may claim acquaintance 
th the ** ursa major," they were by no means 
siroi?s of associating with his lordship's Hive. 
When about nmeteen years of age, I^ord 
rroa bade adieu to the university, and took 
• bis residence at Newstead Abbey. Here 
» pursuits were principally those of amuse- 
snt. Among others, he was extremely fond 

the water. In his aquatic exercises he had 
Idem any other companion than a large 
ewfoundfand do^, to tr>' whose sagacity and 
lelity, he would] sometimes fall out of the 
at, as if by accident, when the dog would 
ize him, and drag him ashore. On losing 
is dog, in the autumn of 1808, he caused a 
>nument to be erected, with an inscription 
mrnemorative of its attachment (See page 

2 of this edition.) 

The following descriptions of Newstead's 
llowed pile will be found interesting: 
Tliis abbi^y was founded in the year 1170, 
Henry II., as a priory of Black Canons, 
d dedicated to the Vit'nn Mary. It con- 
luod in tlte family of the Byrons until the 
ne of the lato lord, who sola it first to Mr. 
aughton for the sum of 140,000/., and on 
It gentleman's not being able to fulfd the 
recment, and thus paying 20,000/. of a for- 
t, it was afterwards sold to another person, 
d mofit of the money vested in trustees for 
B jointure of the Hon. Mrs. Byron. The 
cater part of the edifice still remains. The 
escnt possessor, Major Wildman, is, with 
■nuine Godiic taste, repairing this beautiful 
ecimen of architecture. The late Ijord 
vTon repaired a considerable part of it ; 
it, forgetting the roof, he had turned his at- 
ntion to the inside, and the consequence 
as, that in a few years, the rain paying a 
sit to the apartments, soon destroyed all 
losc elegant devices which his lordsfiip had 
mtriveil. His lordship's own study was a 
eat little apartment, decorated witli some 
9od classic busts, a select collection of books, 
Q antique cross, a sword in a gilt case, and, 
t the end of the room, two finely polished 
kulls on a pair of light fancy stands. In the 
arden, likewise, was a great number of these 
bills, taken from the ou rial -ground of the 
bbey, and pWoA up together; but afterwards 
fiey were recommitted to the earth. A writer, 
rbo visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold 
t, says : ** In one corner of the servants' hall 
ly a stone coffin, in which were fencing 
iovev and foils, and on tlie walls of the ample 
at cheerless kitchen was painted in large let- 
?rs, * Wa«te not — want not.' During the mi- 
ority of Lord Byron, the abbey was in the 

asv*««i:»n of I^rd G , his hounds, and 

ivers rulonif^ of jackdaws, swallows, and 
tarliniTH. Tlio internal traces of this Goth 
rere swept a'.ray : but without, all appeared 
s nide an! unreclaimed as he could have left 
t. Wiih the exception of the dog's tomb, a 
onspicuoiis and elegant object, I do not re- 
ollcct t!ie sliirhtest trace of culture or im- 
rovement. Tlie late lord, a itern and despe- 



rate character, who is never mentioned by tlie 
neighbouring peasants without a significant 
shake of the head, might have returned and 
recognised every thing alxiut him, except 
perhaps, an additional crop of weeds. There 
still slept that old pond, into which he is said 
to have hurled his lady in one of his fits of 
fur}', whence she was rescued by the gardener, 
a courageous blade, who was the lord's mas- 
ter, and chastised him for his barbarity. There 
still, at tlie end of the garden^ in a grove of 
oak, two towering satyrs, he with his goat and 
club, and Mrs. Satyr witn her chubby cloven 
footed brat, placed on pedestals at the inter 
sections of tne narrow and gloomy pathways, 
struck for a moment with their grim visages, 
and silent shaggy forms, the fear into your 
bosom which islelt by the neighbouring pea- 
santry at * th' oud laird's devils.' I have fre- 
quently asked the country neople near New- 
stead, what sort of man his lordship (our Lord 
Byron) was. The impression of his eccentric 
but energetic character was evident in tlie 
reply, ' He 's tlie devil of a fellow for comical 
fancies. He flogs th' oud laird to nothing; but 
he 's a hearty good fellow for all that.' " 

Walpole, who had visited Newstead. gives, 
in his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the fol- 
lowing account of it : 

" As I returned I saw Newstead and Al- 
thorpe ; I like both. The former is the very 
abbey. The great east window of the church 
remains, and connects with the house; the 
hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister 
untouched, with the ancient cistern of the 
convent, and their arms on it : it has a private 
chapel quite perfect. The park, which is still 
rtiarming, has not been so much unprofaned. 
The present lord has lost large sums, and paid 
part in old oaks, five thousand pounds' worth 
of which have been cut near the house. En 
revanche^ he has built two baby forts, to pay 
his country in castles for damage done to the 
navy, and planted a handful of Scotch firs, 
that look like ploiighboys dressed in old fiaimily 
liveries for a public day. In the hall is a very 
good collection of pictures, all animals. ^ The 
refe<;tory, now the great drawing-room, is full 
of Byrons : the vaulted roof remaining, bu^ 
the windows have new dresses making for 
them by a Venetian tailor." 

This is a careless but happy description of 
one of the noblest mansions in England, and 
it will now be read with a far deeper interest 
than wlien it was written. Walpole saw the 
seat of the Byrons, old, majestic, and venera- 
ble ; but he saw nothing of that mapc beauty 
which fame sheds over the habitations of ge 
nius, and which now mantles every turret of 
Newstead Abbey. He saw it wnen decay 
was doing its work on the cloister, the refec- 
tory, a:id the chapel, and all its honours seemed 
mouldering into oblivion. He could not know 
that a voice was soon to go forth from those 
antique cloisters, that should be heard through 
all future ages, and cry, * Sleep no more to all 
the house.' Whatever may be its future fate, 
Newstead Abbey must henceforth be a memo- 
rable abode. Time may shed its wild flowers 
on the walls, and let the fox in upon the court- 



XII 



UPE OF LORD BYRON. 



yard and the chambers ; it may even pass into 
the hands of unlettered pride, or {ilebeian 
opulence : but it has been the mansion of a 
mighty poet. Its name is associated with glo- 
nes that cannot perish, and will go down to 
posterity in one of the proudest pages of our 
annals. 

Lord Byron showed, even in his earliest 
years, that nature had added to the advan- 
tages of high descent the richest gifts of genius 
and of fancy. His own tale is partly told in 
two lines of Lara: 

<* Lefl by his nre, too voun^: such loss to know, 
Lord of himself, that he.i^e of woe.** 

His first literary adventure, and its fate, are 
well remembered. The poems which he pub- 
lished in his minority haa, indeed, those faults 
of conception and diction which arc insepara- 
ble from juvenile attempts, and in particular 
may rather be considered as imitative of what 
haci caught the ear and fancy of tlie youthful 
author, Oian as exhibiting originality of con- 
ception and expression. It was like the first 
essay of the singing-bird, catching at and imi- 
tating the notes of its parent, ere habit and 
time have given the lulness of tone, confi- 
dence, and self-possession which render assist- 
ance unnecessary. Yet tliough there were 
many, and those not the worst judges, who 
discerned in his ** Hours of Idleness" a depth 
of thought and felicity of expression which 
promised much at a more mature age, the 
work did not escape the critical lash of the 
" Scotch Reviewers," who could not resist the 
opportunit}' of pouncing upon a titled poet, 
of showing' oflf tneir own wit, and of seeking 
to entertain tlieir readers with a flippant ar- 
ticle, without much respect to the feelings of 
the autlior, or even to tne indications of merit 
which the work displayed. The review was 
read, and excited mirth; the poems were 
neglected, the author was irritated, and took 
his revenge in keen iambics, which, at the 
same time, proved the injustice of the offend- 
ing critic and the ripening talents of the bard. 
Having thus ventea his indignation against 
the reviewers and their readers, and put all 
the laughter on his side. Lord Byron went 
abroad, and the controversy was for some 
years forgotten. 

It was at Newstead, just before his coming 
of age, he had planned his future travels, and 
his original intention included a much larger 
portion of the world than that which he after- 
wards visited. lie first thought of Persia, to 
which idea indeed he for a long time adhered. 
He afterwards meant to sail for India, and had 
so far contemplated this project as to write 
for information from the Aranic professor at 
Cambridge, and to ask his mother to inquire 
of a friend who had lived in India, what things 
would be necessary for his voyage. He formSd 
his plan of travelling upon very different 
grounds from those which he afterwards ad- 
vanced. All men should travel at one time or 
aDother, he thought, and he had then do con- 
Dexions to prevent him ; when he returned 
be might enter into poUtical life, fbr which 



travelling would not incapacitate him, and 
he wisheid to judge of men oy experience. 

At length, in July, 1809. in company with 
John Cam Hobhous6, Esq. (with whom hisac- 
quaintance commenced at Cambridge), Lord 
liyron embarked at Falmouth for Lisbon, and 
thence proceeded, by the southern provinces 
of Spain, to the Mecfiterranean. The object! 
that he met with as far as Gibraltar seem to 
have occupied his mind, to the temporary 
exclusion of his gloomy and misantiiropip 
thoughts ; for a letter which he wrote to nil 
motlier from thence contains no indication of 
them, but, on the contrary, much playful de- 
scription of the scenes through which he hid 
passed. At Seville, Lord Byron lodged in the 
nouse of two single ladies, one of whom, how- 
ever, was ahout to be married. Though h6 
remaincKl there only three days, she paid him 
the most particular attentions, and, at their 
parting, embraced him with great tcndemesi, 
cutting offa lock of his hair, and presenting him 
with one of her own. With tins specimen of 
Spanish female manners, he proceeded to Ca- 
diz, where various incidents occurred to con- 
firm the opinion he had formed %t Seville <d 
the Andalusian belles, and whic« made bin 
leave Cadiz with regret, and determine to r^ 
turn to it. Lord Byron wrote to his modier 
from Malta« announcing his safety, and agtin 
from Previsa, in November. Upon arriving 
at Yanina, I^ord Byron found that Ali Pacba 
was with his troops in lUyrium, besieging 
Ibrahim Pacha in Berat; but the vizier, bay- 
ing heard that an English nobleman was in 
his country, had given orders at Yanina to 
supply him with every kind of accommoda- 
tion, free of expense. From Yanina. Lord 
B>Ton went to Tepaleen. Here he was lodsed 
in the palace, and the next day introduced to 
Ali Pacha, who declared that he knew him 
to be a man of rank from the smallness of hii 
ears, his curling hair, and his white handsi 
and who sent him a variety of sweetmealB, 
fruits, and other luxuries. In going in • 
Turkish ship of war, provided fbr him by 
Ali Pacha, from Previsa, intending to sail for 
Patras, Lord Byron was very near being lost 
in but a moderate ^le of wind, from the igno- 
rance of the Turkish ofilcers and sailors, and 
was driven on the coast of Suli. An instance 
of disinterested hospitality in the chief of t 
Suliote village occurred to Lord Byron, in 
consequence of his disasters in the Turkish 
galliot. The honest Albanian, after assisting 
nim in his distress, supplying his wants, and 
lodging him and his suite, refused to receive 
any remuneration. When Lord Byron pressed 
him to take money, he said : " I wish you to 
love me, not to pay me." At Yanina, on his 
return, he was introduced to Hussien Bey 
and Mahomet Pacha, two younp children m 
Ali Pacha. Subsec^uently, he visited Smyrna 
whence he went m the Salsette frigate tf 
Constantinople. 

On the 3d of May, 1810, while this frigate 
was lying at anchor In tlie Dardanelles, Lord 
Byron, accompanied by Lieutenant Eken- 
head,swam the Hellespont from the European 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xiu 



ihore to the Asiatic — about two miles wide. 
The tide of the Dardanelles runs so strong, 
that it ia impossible either to swim or to sail 
to any ffiren point. Lord Byron went from 
the casUe to Abydos, and landed on the oppo- 
ate shore, AUl thi pe miles below his meditated 
place of approach. He had a boat in attend- 
ance all the way ; so that no danger could be 
apprehended even if his strength had failed. 
His lordship records, in one of his minor 
poeips« that he got the ague by the voyage ; 
wit it was well known, i&i when he lan&d, 
be was so much exhausted, that he gladly ac- 
cepted the offer of a Turkish fisherman, and 
reposed in his hut for several hours ; he was 
then very ill, and as Lieutenant Ekenhead 
was compelled to go on board his frigate, he 
was left alone. The Turk had no idea of the 
rank or conseauence of his inmate, but paid 
him most marked attention. His wife was 
his nurse, and, at the end of five days, he lefl 
the shore, completely recovered. When he 
was about to embark, the Turk gave him a 
lai^ loaf, a cheese, and a skin filled witli 
wine, and then presented him with a few 

Kras fabout a penny each), prayed Allah to 
*§» nim, and wished him safe home. His 
lordship made him no return to this, more than 
•a3ing tie felt much obliged. But when he 
amved at Abydos, he sent over his man Ste- 
jano, to the T^urk, with an assortment of fish- 
in^nets, a fowling piece, a brace of pistols, 
azM twelve yards of silk to make ^owns for 
his wife. The poor Turk was astonislied, and 
Kaid, *"• What a noble return for an act cf hu- 
manity!" He then formed the resolution of 
crowing the Hellespont, and, in propria 
permma^ thanking his lordship. His wife ap-. 

Krovcrd of the plan ; and he had sailed about 
alf way across, wlien a sudden squall upset 
hi% boat, and the poor Turkish fisherman 
found a watery grave. Lord Byron was 
much distrrs.sc<r when he heard of Uic calas- 
trriphe, and, with all that kindness of heart 
which was natural to him, he sent to the 
witiow fiAy dollars, and told her he would 
ever be hei* friend. This anecdote, so highly 
booourable to his lordship's memory, is very 
little known. Lieutenant Hare, who was on 
the spot at the time, furnished the particulars, 
mud added tliat, in the year 1817, liord Byron, 
then proceeding to Constantinople, landed at 
the «ame s{K>t, and made a handsome present 
to the widow and her son, who recollected 
the circumstance, but knew not Lord Byron, 
hu dress and appearance having so altered 
him. 

It was not until after T^rd Byron arrived 
at Constantinople that be decided not to go 
on to Persia, but to pass the foilowinff summer 
in the IVTorca. At t 'onstantinoplc, Mr. Hob- 
lioose loA him to return to England. On losiuc 
bis companion, l.iord Byron went a^in, ana 
ilooe, over much of the old track which he had 
tlready viMtod, and studied the scenery and 
inanners,of{ I reeceespeciall]^, with the search- 
ing eye of a poet and a painter. His mind 
appeared oc^casiunall^ to luive some tendency 
towards a reprove r\' from the morbid state of 
moral apathy which he had previously evinced, 
n 



and the gratification which he manifested on 
observing the supcriorit)^, in every respect, of 
England to other countries, proveid that patri- 
otism was far from being extmct in his bosom. 
The embarrassed state of his affairs at length 
induced him to return hbme, to endeavour to 
arrange them ; and he arrived in the Volage 
frigate on the 2d of July, 1811, having been 
absent exactly two years. His health had not 
suffered by his travels, although it had been 
interrupted by two sharp fevers ; but he had 

Sut himself entirely on a vegetable diet, and 
rank no wine. 

Soon after his arrival, he was summoned to 
Newstead, in conseauence of the serious ill- 
ness of his mother ; out on reaching the ab- 
bey, found tliat slie had breathed her last. He 
suffered much from this loss, and from the dis- 
appointment of not seeing her before her death; 
and while bis feelings on the subject were still 
very acute, he received the intelligence, that 
a friend, whom he highly esteemed, bad been 
drowned in tlie Cam. He had not long before 
heard of the death, at Coimbra, of a school- 
fellow, to whom he was much attached. These 
three melancholy events, occurring within the 
space of a month, had, no doubt, a powerful 
effect on Lord Byron's feelings. 

Towards the termination of his *' English 
Bards and Scotch Kcviewers," the noble au- 
thor had declared, that it was his intention to 
break off, from that period, his newly-formed 
connexion with the iVIuses, and tliat, should 
he return in safety from the ** Minarets" of 
Constantinople, the *^ Maidens" of Georgia, 
and the '' Sublime Snows" of Mount Cau- 
casus, nothing on earth should tempt him to 
resume the pen. Such resolutions are seldom 
maintained. In Februarv, 1812, the first two 
cantos of *' Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" (with 
the manuscript of which he had presented his 
friend Mr. Dallas,] made their appearance, 
producing an effect upon the public, equal to 
that of any work winch has ocen published 
within this or the last century. 

This poem is, perhaps, the' most origin?! in 
the English language, ooth in conception and 
execution. It is no more like Bcattie's Min 
strcl than Paradise Lost — though the former 
production was in the noble author's mind 
when first thinking of Childe Harold. A ^^'eat 
poet, who gives himself up free and uncon- 
fined to the impulses of his genius, as Byron 
did in the better part of this singular creation, 
shows to us a spirit as if sent out from the 
hands of nature, to rantrc over the earth and 
the societies of men. Even Shakspcare him- 
self submits to the shackles of history and 
soc^iety. But here Byron has traversed the 
whole earth, borne along by the whirlwind of 
his own spirit. Wherever a forest iVowned, 
or a temple glittered — there he was privi- 
leged to liend Tiis flight. He suddenly starts 
up from his solitary dream, by the secret foun- 
tain of the desert, and descends at once into 
the tumult of peopled or the silence of de- 
serted cities. Whatever actuallv lived — had 
perished heretofore — or that had within it a 
power to kindle passion, h(>canie the mntfriei 
of his all-cmbracing song. There are no unities 



xiT LIFE OF LORD nVRON. 



of t"n- ■ - -.Iir** to f.'Vrr K-"n— r:i..! we fly lif-riizf-n in !*!p f.r<'t circif «. This pa^eport wu 
ifi". ■■ .• . ; "I :.;;;-Vii T i KiiI-*«»:». an I fromrii't r;»«(i-'irv '.i L-rd U'.^'U. who ;»if*s 



t^H I T • ) ' 'Vr-.T, ffvt.r :■..! ■• i- -» ii":i«: "f n:tti]ro. ♦•;*• hm. .:i» try «. ! -.i: >• of : ir»|j aini nifik. But 

arnl ;i.; • i • tn'.ij-.i'i'.vufr i;f a-*. WKi-ri thr the iriN-r»--t w'r.iff. " ;■* ji rii'.i* a*»'!fhcd to liil 

jj i-J ji-i • ■;:»*- lit" hi-tury i"*-'-.'!':'; J t >*> liirn and ;irr*f'ncr. ainl in i.i* r'lnvfr^a'inii. was ofi 

fi'!'-!. I* «■ i.iJ ! f-irn tn i^i- "iilfn-ii i ^jicN'Ta- uytnre fir bi-yn::!! wf.tt \\if^- h<''rr<iitanr 

rl'- *.» ^: ■■■■••.■ ili J', ifjr-.l «i!;r uv.,1 lirtv*-. nrji! the claiiTi-i cn':!-! i-i' liii rii"* i*i--> h:i%f #'oiitVrnEdj 

i''.;-_'' •> '.f UiriL'- 'i.'i i r-ii:ji:»:» r-f- of ^iM savt* arii! Lis r*-f*-''*\."U was « !ii?.»i*i.i-iM: hryood 

p!'.' '■ 'i • .-I'l- T^'lr W'Ti- >»f. Ii\iri:rifi »''jrc- any th inn i(:::i_'in:t^i«^ Lunl i>\ nm was not 

rf -J'*'; - I J f.xilr-. In-li-'-.i, riirirfi of tl.c :»o'vrT ornMif t:i'»>o iMir.iry iii«-n nf wlnuii it may ba 

wM» "i II.'ii'i !M«.-r*i-p,l w:!-* iJt-rivirtl fr-nrri tKi-. !r'j|y sail, j/iht^'t f»r(T*»ntuthim't /i. A coilll- 

ho"ir< <■. II«; JivfJ in :i --irt of «yiii;i:i*.hy witfi Ti-namr. i'X',iii-il«-ly inmiihil In ihr expre^ 

tJii- ;■■:*!!'; .'.'.in I — '•nrri'-Mrrt*-* whnll/ iii''Mn*;t '•l«'«!i •■ffi'c !mj an-i jia-'-iiin. aii-I rxhiniiinff th6 

frij.Ti t' —f r:'.'''l"\f'' '.icririi: in «jjj"j-iliori lo it rcrnarka^jli* fi>iitr:.-i i.-f \»t> liark hair and 

— -yfifrj 'irnr-- MiTi.lini' with it. — hi:t. at all f>«'hn»\v«.. ui"i hjfit anil fxpri-^^-ivc eyes, 

tirii ■-. Ill a!) hi- t!r»':L''»t« sitiil n*-?ii.iii-. hrarini: pn-'j-n'oJ to t'l'* : ■■> "iM^'noMii-l tho most in- 

a rr-''-ri'iic-«r to lh«' ;iii'j!i': mini. Hi«i ♦ijiirit trn*-tin!: -ijhift li.ir iht- ixrrri-p of his art. 

rif'-'!i I n«.T i-j fjo hark invi Th»' ;:a-?. — ihoijjh Th»* pri^liiiT'i'ia'iiiL' f-xrin-- mn wa* that of 

i*. o"*i«-:j (!i ! ■>.o. — '•» hrin-_' tri«- n'. • ri- «if it- love *lvr]t an«! ha'-'.fii.il th'niL'lit. wi.irh ijuve way to 

br'.r.k to f;:Tt'i in iiion.' h<:ii]v:']| Jiff. Thf fx- ihp nii'»t n«;'i<l j-lai nf fcatprt- when he en- 

KV-nrtr h«- pairitf-'l iiij*.- thf yjrr^rn?. Tfie irii'*"''! in irifi-n-'tini; «.!i^rn«".ii.iri : mj that i 

ob;'r:Ti hr- pn-^-r'Mtt-i wi-n- rnarkfJ out to hi'?i hrnthiT \»t*l c-iHMji'ir«"«l thrrn tn ihe ^CTiIpture 

by int-ns artinl rt-jar-I-. It wr:S his fn *.pf:ak '»f a hcanlifi:! alaha-tnr va^o. onh sof n to per- 

of all fhif-p :rn;at ii'Iitiral rvfnH whir-h were Ufrtinn whm h^'t.tr! up fn irn within. The 

ohifr-s .1^ i.i|r;i, |,'i,.i-jrj.ji,. .i{,,j i,f,j|.^tpc.^] (^yj^. j l^pv^jjcs nf inirth, i-iiftv. iinliLTi'itiiin. or sa- 

pat!..-. Ij;;? ffiif'tlv hfr -jiikr our own frflini's.' tiriraldi-liki'.wiiirh frortiLiitly animated Lord 
exril:*; I in rh i»!jht. luniniajf. an-l yia^-inn. Hymn'* *-oiinti nanre. ii.i::J't. diirinu an ov«i- 
Ifi- tfivr I- wi-rif not. at fir'«t. \\io m It'-irnpillod iriL'"" r(invi-r».iitini-,. be nii-taken hy a stranger 
arf <^»f a fnin ! si-vr.rin:; it^r-lf in lonely roarninsr ''^r V^ hal»iti':tl ♦xprc^-inn, so ea>ilv and so 
from ail :>:irtirri;}ati<iri in th*.* ^-ijrii-iv to which! happily was it f«»rrn<(I tnr ihfm all: but those 
it bf.lorii'rr'l. but rather r/bi-yini' tfic general "'h** had an oppoitunity of stM«l\ inir bis fea- 
nr>tinn of t'to rfiind iif that '•'.frirty. jtiirc-s l*or a lrn!;ih of time, anil upon variouf 

T\\i: in*!ir:Lti«in«i of a liold. powerful, and . occasion*, hotli of n-st and entotion, knew 
ori jinal min<!, wiiirrh fflanred throiii^h cver>- that their proper lantviiase was that of melan- 
line of C'liil le Ilamld, eloctrifiiNJ thf* ma«s of choly. Sometimes shades of thi* i;IiN>m inter- 
rpiider^. nn.l [daceri at once upon Lord By- riiptei! even liis jraye>»t and most happy mo- 
ron's fifTil thf? ffarland for which otiier men ">''nts: and the foUowinji verse* are said to 
of L^'nin^ have toilet! lonff. and which they have dmppeil from his pen to ex cn«ie a Iran- 
have irwim-l late. Me was placed pre-eminent *=ient ex])re«.si(m of melancholy which over 
amoiii' the litep.ir\' men of his cmmtrA', bv cloudecl the i:eneral jriiictv. 

{rener.I acclamation. Tho^e who hail so fiiror- u wh.^ fmm the h..nrt whore Sorrow .Its, 

oii-.jy <;en-nr..i! hi^ juvenik- essays, and perhaps n^r ,u^^^^y ^|,.^,i^,^. ,„„„,„^ „^, |^i , ' 

"dread'.-fl such another fieM," were the first AnH oVr the rhani-iiisi asi^rt fliis, 

to pj.y warm iif»ma«Te to his matured efn)rts: Ami rlmuls thi; hrfm, or fills iho eve 

whilf of'i«rs, who saw in the sentiments of II«'«'«I n«rf il.»- gliKmi t*iat smm shall smk, 

f-liilde I land'l much to reirret and to censure. -^'y iho»i«;ht!« iheir (iunncrtn know too well ; 

did riot withhold th'-ir tribute of applause to Back lo my hreart the ca|iTives shrink, 

the d'oth of thouirht, the power and fierce of ■'^™* **'*^^ **»*^»"' »^^»»' *»''■»** ^W-" 

expre:,io,.. |ind the energy of , sentiment, ^ ^^s impossible to notice a dejection be- 



w uch arii.nated tlio Pd^nma-e. Tlnj^, as i^,^^,,-,,^ ,„.{ 'i.^.^ to the rank, the a^e, noi the 
all ad.mred be p.Kjm all werti pi^-paiTd to «„ecess of this voun^' nohlemai;, witliout 
greet 'H- author with hat fame which is the feelincr j,„ i„.!ennableeuriositv to ascertain 
pfK-t s 1mm lewanl. It was amidst such feel- Hhclher it had a de<-per cau^e'than ba 
in-s of ':,dnur.ition that Lord Hymn fully en- constitutional t.mperiment. It wasobvi 
tcred on thai pub he slaire. where, to the close of a de-ree inca leu lablv more serious thai 



ascertain 

labit or 

iously 

of his lifrr he rnadr so .listinjruished a fijrure. alluJcd tiVv'PrincrArthuV^''""^^^^^ 

Every thinir m his manner, person, and 

conver-iitinn. tendrrd to maintain the charm „ I reinrmbcr when I was in Franre, 

which hi- '.'♦•niii'. hal fluriir amund him ; anrl ^7"? gemlenien would be as i^ad as night, 

fh..se ud'nifti.l to hi. c.mversation, far fmrn Only for wanioniie*. 

findinL*^ thiit the in-nii-i-d port sunk into onli- But, howsoever derived, this, joine<] to Lord 

nary fTiorfality. fill tli'-mselvc* attached to him Byron's air of miuijlinp in amu<iements and 

not iinly hy many UMhlo rpnlitit s, but bv the sports as if he contemned them, and fp-h tbit 

mtere-t nf a rnvsteriiius, uudc;fineil,and almost his sphore was far above the fa':hionat)le and 

vain fill r-iirio'-itv. friv<»I«m«* crowd which surroundetl hitn, ftawe 

It IS well known h(»w wide the doors of so- a stn^nir effect of colourinj: to a character 

ciety ;ir<? opcmed in London to literarv merit, whose tints were othenvise deeidedlv roman- 

even tn ;i dc'^ree far iuf'-rior to Lord Hymn's, lie. Noble and far descended, the pilirrim of 

pnd that it j- mi |y neccis.ury lo be honourably ilistant and sava«:e countries, eminent as a 

di.ilin^'uislied by the public vcmcc, to move as a poet among the first whom Britain has pro 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



tcribcd a thounand pounds for some pu' 
purposo. On Itiis occasiou, Byroo compc 
the following epigram ; 

" C>rliile lubflchbei a Ihouund poond 

Out of hit rich dwuLv ; 

And for i liipcnce cinl» rnmd 






Betttwi 



a fgrluDfl ind hi 



BvTon rclainf<l his antipathf to this rela 
to ti,e last. On reading some lines in 
DenNpapora adclreaaed to Liidy Holland 
the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her li> re 
the snuff-box. bequeathed to her by Napoli 
beginning ; 

'^ I'tdy, ngect ihe gift," etc 
he immediately wrote tbe following pare 
iccpt Ihc f^LH a hf ro wfuv, 



IMW 



w df kll this I 






nl your Isdynhip froin Inking 
Sir Lumley Skefiini^n had written a 
sedy, called, if wc remember HL'ht, "' 
AfyBtorious Bride," wbicti wa* fairly dam 
on tlic first nighl: a maxquersde look pi 
■oon after this fatal catastrophe, to whiehw 
jolia Cam Hob)iou«c. as a Spanish mm i 
had been ravished by (he French army, 
was under the protection of his lordsl 
Skeffington, compassionating the unforlur 
voung woman, asked, in a very lentimpi 
manner, of Byron, "wlio isslie?" " The M 
teHous Bride," replied his lordship. 

On Byron') return from hii firat tour, ] 
Dallas called upon him, and, alter the u) 
■alutalions bad jiassed, inquired if be was [ 
pared with any other work to tunport 
hune wlileh he had already acquired. By 
theri delivered for his examination a po 
entilled " Hints from Horace." being a ps 
phraieof the art of poetry. IVIr. Dallas pn 
tsed to su[>erintend tlie publication of 
piece as he had done that of (he satire, a 
BCCordinely, it was carried to Cawlhom the 
bookseller, and matters arranged ; hut Mr. 
Dallas, not thinking the poem likely to in- 
crease his lordship's reputation, allowed it tc 
linger in the press. It began tbus: 
" Who -■( 



AbuHd his ui, III) Nmiiire iriih 



A mid d hnnnnr lo a i 






Degrade God'ii cnalurps in hv eraphje sp1ctt>^ 
Ko( bU rhol fornvt poljl«i«*s which defends 
IVmIi ki Ihsit taullH, e«i1<l e^f hia frioninn friendi. 
BeStve nw, MrwrlHM, Kkf rhill Jiteturv Kprns 
lln book whirh, aiHicr Ihui > Mck imm's drum, 
Diii|iliyii t crewd aT ruium incnmplete, 
PoMic nghlmanii, wiihvul head or ted." 

Mr. I>allas expresv>d his sorrow thai his 
lordahip had written nothing else. Byron (hen 
told him that he liail occanionaliy composed 
tome verses In Spenser's measure, relative to 
tlie conntries he hail visiteit. " They are not 
worth (roublins you nith," said his lonlship, 
' but you shall have them all with joa:" be 



then took "Childc Harold's Pilgrimage" fron 
a trunk, and delivered it to him. Mr. Dalltl, 
having read the poem, was in raptures with 
it; he instantly resolved lo do his utmoat H 
suppressing the " Hints from Horace," and 
to bring out Childe Harold. He urged Byra 
to publish this last poem; but he was unwQ)> 
ing, and preferred to have the " Hints" pub- 
lished, lie would not he convinced of the 
great merit of llic "Chlldc," and as some pep- 
bOD had seen it before Mr. Dallas, and e^ 
pressed disapprobation, Byron was by sa 
means sure of its kind reception by Ihe worid. 
In a short time afterwards, however, he acreed 
to its publication, and requested Mr. Dillai 
not to deal with Cawtbom, but oITer it (o Hik 
ler of Albemarle street : he wislicd a fashion- 
able publisher ; hut Miller declined it, chiefly 
on account of the strictures il contained cb 
Lord Elmn, whose publisher he was. LoDf- 
rran hao refused lo publish the " I^ati^e," lod 
Byron would not suffer any of his work* to 
come from that house ; the work was theifr 
fore carried to Mr. Murray, who then keptl 
shop opposite St. Duns tan's church In Fled 
street. Mr. Murray had expressed a doJif 
to publish for Lord byron, and regretted (bsl 
Mr. Dallas had nut taken the " F.nglish Bardi 
and Scotch Iteviewcrs" (o him ; hut this WH 

Byron felt into company nith Hogg, tbt 
Ettrick Shepherd, al the Lakes. Tlie Bhrp- 
herd was standing at (he inn-door of Ainb» 
side, when forth came a strapping yi>ung mu 
from the house, and off nith iiis hat. and ant 
with his hand. Hogg did not know him, uil 
appearing al a dead halt, tlie other rElievn 
him by saying, " Mr. Hogg. 1 hope you wiD 
excuse me; my name is Byron, and I cannnl 
help thinking (hat we ought to hold onmliti 
acquainted. Titc poets acconlingty shook' 
hands immediately, and, while they conlinind 
at the Lakes, were hand and glove, drank 
furiously together, and laughed at tlieirbrotliH 
bards. On Byron's leaving the Lakes, he seet 
Hoge a tetter quizzing Ihe Lnkists, which tht 
Shepherd was so mischievous ai to show to 

When rcsidinc at Mitylcne in (he yesf 
1812, he portioned eight voiing girls very (ihe- 
rally, and even danced wilb them at the mar- 
riage feList ; he gaie a cow to one man, hon« 
to another, and coHor and silk to several girh 
who lived by weaving tlicse materiats : he aln 
bought a new boat for a fisherman who hid 
loslhisowninacale.and he often gave G reek 
(eslamei)ls to the poor children. 

While a( Metaxata, in ]tl33. an embank- 
ment. a( which several persons had been co- 
gaged digging, fell in, and buried some of 
them alive: he was at dinner when he heaid 
of (he accident, and, starling up from the ta- 
ble, ran to the spot, aecompaniri! bv his phy- 
sician, who took a supply of medicines witk 
him. Tlie lal>ourers who were employed to 
extricate their companions, soon becamfl 
alarmed for themselves, and refused lo go on, 
saying, they believed they had dug out all tbi 
bodies which had been covered bv the ruiDi> 
Lord Byron endeavoured to induce them la 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xvii 



ootinue their exertions, but finding menaces 
I Tain, he seized a spade and began to dis 
lost zealously ; at length the peasantry joined 
im, and they succeeded in saving two more 
ersons from certain death. 

It is stated in the '' CouTersations," that 
{>Tun was engaged in several duels, — that in 
ne instance he was himself principal in an 
affair of honour" with Hobhouse, — and would 
are been so in another with Moore, if the 
(ard of Erin's challenge had been properly 
orward^ to him. 

On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron 
Harried, at Beaham, in the county of Durham, 
inne Isabella, only daughter of Sir Ralph 
Jillbank (since Noel), Bart To this lady he 
lad made a proposal twelve months before, 
»i*t was rejected : well would it have been for 
heir mutual happiness had that rejection been 
cpeated. After their marriage. Lord and 
^ady Bvron took a house in £ondon ; gave 
plendid dinner-parties; kept separate car- 
tages ; and, in short, launched into every sort 
f nshionable extravagance. This could not 
L$t Ume ; the portion which his lordsliip had 
?ceivea with Miss Millbank (ten thousand 
oands) soon melted away; and, at length, an 
TCHTution was actually levied on the furniture 
r h» residence. It was then agreed that 
.ady Byron, who, on the 10th of December, 
';15. baud presented her lord with a daughter, 
'louid pay a visit to her father till the storm 
as blown over, and some arrangements had 
eon made with their creditors. From that 
i«>it slie never returned, and a separation en- 
led, for which various reasons have been 
»**izned ; the real cause or causes, however, 
f t^iat regretted event, are up to this moment 
ivnlved m mystery, thou|rh, as might be ex- 
ecto*l, a wonHerfiil sensation was excited at 
ic time, and every description of c(mtra- 
i^tor>' rumour was m active circulation. 

Bvron was first introduced to Miss Mill- 

ank at Lady 's. In goins up stairs he 

tumbled, aiui remarked to Moore, who ac- 
ompanicNl him, that it was a bad omen. On 
ntering the room, he perceived a lady more 
imply drcftsed than the rest sitting on a sof^ 
le asked Moore if she was a humble conff 
tankm to any of the ladies. The latter replied, 
^ ?!« w a great heiress ; you 'd better marry 
ler. and repair the old place Newstead." 

The following anecdotes on the subject of 
hijt unfortunate marriage, are given from 
[x>rd Byron's Conversations, in his own words: 

*' There was something piouant, and what 
re term pretty, in Miss Millbank ; her fea- 
ures were small and feminine, thousrh not 
^etrular ; she had the fairest skin imaginable ; 
jfr figure was perfect for her height, and there 
raR a simplicity, a retired modesty about her, 
rhich was very characteristic, and formed a 
lappy contrast to the cold artificial formality 
iDd studied stiffness, which is called fashion : 
khe interested me excee<lingly. It is unne- 
:€«sar>' to detail the progress of our acquaint- 
lace : I became daily rhore attached to her, 
md it ended in my making her a proposal that 
»ai rejected; her refusal was couched in 
senna tLat could not offend me. I was besides 
b3 3 



persuaded that in declining my offer, she was 
governed by the influence of her mother; and 
was the more confirmed in this opinion by her 
reviving our correspondence herself, twelve 
months after. The tenor of her letter was, 
that although she could not love me, she de- 
sired my friendship. Friendship is a dangerous 
word for young ladies; it is love full-fledged, 
and waiting for a fine day to fly. 

" I was not so young when my fiither died, 
but that I perfectly remember him, and had 
very early a horror of matrimony from the 
sight of domestic broils: this feeling came 
over me very strongly at my wedding. Some- 
thins whispered me that I was sealing my own 
death-warrant. I am a great believer in pre- 
sentiments; Socrates' demon was not a fic- 
tion ; Monk Ix*wis had his monitor ; and Na- 
poleon many warnings. At the last moment, 
I would have retreated if I could have done 
so ; I called to mind a friend of mine, who had 
married a young, beautiful, and rich girl, and 
yet was miserable ; he had strongly urged me 
against putting my neck in the same yoke : 
and, to snow you hiow firmly I was resolved to 
attend to his advice, I betted Hay fifty guineas 
to one that I should always remain sin^e. Six 
years afterwards, I sent liim the money. The 
day before I proposed to Lady Byron, I had 
no idea of doing so. 

" It had been predicted by Mrs. Williams, 
that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age 
for me ; the fortune-telling witch was right, — 
it was destined to prove so. I shall never for- 
get the :2d of January ! Lady Byron, (Byrn^ 
he pronounced it,) was the only unconcerned 

Ferson present ; I jady Noel, her mother, cried ; 
trembled like a leaf, made the wronff re- 
sponses, and, after tlic ceremony, called her 
Miss Millbank. 

** There is a singular history attached to the 
ring; the very day the match was concluded, 
a ring of my mother's that had been lost, was 
dug up by the gardener at Newstead. I thought 
it was sent on purpose for the wedding; but 
my mother's marriage had not been a fortu- 
nate one, and this ring was doomed to be the 
seal of an unhapnier union still. 

" After the ordeal was over, wo set off for a 
rountr>'-seat of Sir Ralph's, and I was sur- 
prised at the arrangements for the journey, 
and somewhat out of humour to find ft lady's 
maid stuck between me and my bride. It was 
rather too early to assume the husband, so I 
was forced to submit ; but it was not with a 
very uood erarc. 

"I have been accused of saying, on setting 
into the carnage, that I had married^ Lady 
BvTon out of spite, and because she had re- 
fused me twice. Though I was for a moment 
vexed at her prudery, or whatever it may be 
called, if 1 haa made so uncavalier, not to say 
brutal, a speech, I am convinced I-.ady Byron 
would instantly have left tlie carriage to me 
and the maid, (I mean the lady's); she had 
spirit enough to have done so, ana would prop- 
erly have resrntrd the affront. 

"Our honey-moon was not all sunshine; 
it had its cloucls : and ITobhouse has some let- 
ters which would serve to explain tlic rise and 



XVIll 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



fall in tlie barometer ; but it was never down 
at zero. 

** A curious thing happened to me shortly 
after the honey-moon, which was very uwk- 
wanl at the time, but has since amused me 
much. It so liappened tliat three mnrried 
women were on a weddin^j visit to my wife, 
(and in tlie sanie room at the same time), 
whom I had known to be all birds of the same 
ne^t. Fancy the scene of confusion that en- 
sued. 

The world savs I married Miss Millbank 
for her fortune, because she was a great heir- 
ess. All I have ever received, or am likelv 
to receive, (and that has heen twice paid back 
too), was 10,000/. My own income at this 
period was small, and sornewliat hespoke. 
Newstead was a very unprofitable estate, and 
broui^ht me in a bare ir>00/. a-year : tlie Lan- 
cashire ^)roperty wa** hampered witli a law- 
suit, which has cost me 14,000/. and is not yet 
finished. 

" I heard afterwards that Mrs. Charlment 
had been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's 
mind against me ; that she had employed her- 
self and others in watching me in London, 
and had reported having traced me into a 
house in Portland-Place. There was one act 
nnworthy of any one hut such a confidante ; 
I allude to the breaking ojien my writing- 
desk : a book was found in it that did not do 
much credit to my taste in literature, and some 
letters from a married woman, with whom 1 
had been intimate before my marriage. The 
use that was made of the latter was most un- 
justifiable, whatever may be thought of the 
oreach of confidence that led to their discov- 
ery. Lady Byron sent them to the husband 
of' the lady, who had the good sense to take 
no notice of their contents. The gravest ac- 
cusation that has been made against me, is 
that of having intrigued with Mrs. Mardyn in 
my own house, introduced her to my own ta- 
ble, etc. ; there never was a more unfounded 
calumny. Beincron the Committee of Drury- 
Lane Theatre, 1 have no doubt that several 
actresses called on me; but as to Mrs. Mar- 
dyn, who was a beautiful woman, and might^^.., ^ _, . ^. 

havebeenadangerousvisitress,! wasscarcel/liyron, who had been brought un with me. 



doctor said afterwards he had bee-n told tliat 
I always looked down when Lady Byron bent 
her eyes on me, and exhibited other symptomp 
ecjually infallihie, particularly lliose tliat mark 
ed tlie late king's ca*<e so strongly. 1 do not, 
however, tax Lady By ion with this transac* 
tion : ]>robahly she was not privy to it: she 
was the tool of others. Her mother always 
deteste<l me; she had not even the decency to 
ctmceal it in her own house. Dining onedaji 
at Sir Ralph's (who was a good sort of iiiao, 
and of whom you may form some idea, when 
1 tell you that a leg of mutton was always 
served at his table, that he might rut the same 
joke upon it) I bn)ke a tcK)11i.nnd wa" in great 
pain, wiiich 1 could not avoid sljowing. *It 
will do YOU good,' said Lady ]\oel ; * I am glad 
of it !' t gave lier a look ! 

" I..ady Byron had go«.Kl ideas, but codH 
never express them : wrote ])m*f rv t<H), but it 
was only good by accident ; her letters were 
always enigmatical, often unintelligible. She 
was easily made the duj)e of tlie designing, 
for she thousht her knowledge of mahkiM 
infallihle. She had got s(»me ftxiliMi idea of 
Mailame de Stael's into her head, that a per- 
s<m may be better known in the firstliourthaD 
in ten years. She had the habit of drawing 
people's characters after she had seen tlicm 
once or twice. She wrote pages on |)a^ 
about my character, but it was as unlike as 
possilde. She was governed by what she 
called fixed rules and princij)Ies, s()uared 
mathematically. She would have made an 
excellent wrangler at Cambridge. It must 
be confessed, however, that she gave do proof 
of her boasted consistency : first, she refiised 
me, then she accepted me, then she separated 
herself fnim me — so much for consistency. I 
need not tell you of the obloquy and oppro- 
brium that were cast upon my name when 
our separation wa*! made public ; I once made 
a list from the journals of the day of tl«e dif- 
ferent worthies, ancient and modern, towhofO 
I was compared : 1 remember a few, Nero, 
Apicius, Epicurus, Taliirula, Ileliogabalns, 
rienry the Eighth, and lastly, the—; — — . All 
.my former friends, even my cousin Geoi:;ge 



acquainted (to speak) with her. I might even 

mauce a more serious charge ainiinst than 

employing spies to watch suspected amours. 
I had been snut up in a dark street in Lon- 
don, writing *The Siege of C-orinth.' and had 
refused myself to every one till it was finishetl. 
I was suq)rised one ^ay by a doctor and a 
lawyer almost forcing themselves at the same 
time into my room ; 1 did not know till after- 
wards the real object of tlieir visit. 1 thought 
their questions singular, frivolous, and some- 
what importunate, if not impertinent ; but 
what should I have tlioiiirht if I had known 
tliat they were sent to pn)vide proofs of my 
insanity ? I have no douht that my answers to 
these cmissaric^s' interroirations were not very 
rational or consistent, for my imagination was 
heatc<i by other things; but Dr. Baillie coifld 
not conscientiously make me out a certificate 
kfT BcHlIam, and perhaps the lawyer gave a 
more faFourable report tj his employers. The 



and whom I loved as a brother, tooK my wife's 
part: he followed the stream when it was 
strongest against me, and can never expect 
any thinij from me ; he shall never touch a 
sixpence of mine. I was looked u[>on ns the 
wor«it of husbands, the most al)andouerl and 
wicked of men ; and my wife as a surieriiig 
ancrel, an incarnation of all the virtu<*s and 
perfections of the sex. I was abused in tlie 
public prints, made the common lalk of pri- 
vate companies, liissed as I went to the Iloii<e 
of Ijonls, insulte<] in the streets, afraid to go 
to the theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs. 
Mardyn had been driven with insult. The 
Examiner was the only paper that «lared saf 
a word in my defence, and Lady .Tcrscy the 
only person in the fashionable world that did 
not look upon me as a monster." 

" In additi(m to all these mortifications, my 
affairs were irretrievably involved, and alnio^ 
so as to make me what they wished, a wai 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XIX 



:oinp«*UcHl to part with Newstead, wliich I 
icvcTc-tMiUl have ventured to sell in my moth- 
ers liuiinie. As it is, I shall never forpve 
nvrifit' for having done so, though I am told 
that tlie estate uuuld not bring half as much 
1^ 1 £j«it for it: this does not at all reconcile 
me t(» having ])aKed with the old 'Abbey. I 
iid not iriake up my mind to this step but from 
the la*l nece^isity ; I had my wife's portion to 
repay, and was determined to add lO.tMJO/. 
more of my own to it, which I did : I always 
hated UMn^r in debt, and do not owe a ^inea. 
The moment I had put my affairs in train, and 
in little more than ei<;htcon months after mv 
tnarriaiie. 1 left England, an involuntary ex- 
ile. int^'iidin«r it should be for ever." 

We <hall here avail ourselves of some ob- 
Ber\-ations by a powerful and elegant critic,' 
who»ic opinions on the personal character of 
Lord Uyron. as well as on the merits of his 
poem.4, are, from their originality, candour, 
and ke<fn discrimination, of considerable 
wei^it. 

*'The charge against Lonl Byron," says 
this writer, " ls, not that he fell a victim to 
exce<ssivc temptations, and a combination of 
circumstances, which it required a nire and 
extraonlinary decree of virtue, wis<lom, pru- 
dence, and steadiness to surmount; but that 
he abandoned a situation of umrommon ad- 
ranla^es, and frll weakly, pusillanirriou'-ly, 
tnd St Ifj^hly, when victory would have been 
easy, ami when defi^at was ignominious. In 
reply to thi** charge, I do not deny that Lord 
Bynm inherited some very desirable, and even 
enviable privilejrcs in the lot of life which firll 
to his share. I should falsify my own senti- 
menti. if I trcjited lightly the gift of an an- 
cient F.fifflish peerage, and a name of honour 
and venerable anti(]uity ; but without a for- 
hinc competent to tljat rank, it is not ' a bed 
of rrK<»s,' mv, it is attended with many and 
extreme difljcuhics. and the difficult irs are 
exactly such as a iif^uius and temper like l^oril 
Byron *» were least calculated to meet— at any 
rate, lf*ast calc:ulatefl to meet under tlie pr^cu- 
liar rollateral circumstances in which he was 
olaccd. If IS income was very narrow; his 
NewMcad property left him a very small dis- 
pCMahle surplus; his Lancasliire i)roperty was, 
in its condition, etc., unproductive. A pro- 
fession, Mich as the army, micht have lessened, 
oralrniist annihilated the difficulties of his ])e- 
calinr position : but probably his lameness 
rpDfien'd this impf>ssiblc. He seems t(» have 
haul a hive of independence, which was noble, 
and pp»!»ab|y even an intractability; but tlii'< 
temper addinl to his indisposition to bend and 
adajJt himself to his h»t. A dull, or supple, 
or iritrijuing man, without a single gcxxl 
qQality of head or heart, might have manaL'cd 
it muf'i h*tti*r; he rninht have made himself 
luV^Tvi-nt to government, and wonned him- 
iflf iriii> >ome lucrative place; or he might 
bave li\ed meanly, condirmed himself stu- 
piflly ur cnngingly to all humours, and been 

1 Sir Kserton Bryd^es, Biurt. who has written so 
tf»Hy and to ably on Lord Bytm'a genius and 
chvacicr 



home onward on tlie wings of society with 
little personal expense. 

** Lord Byron was of another quality and 
temperament. If the world would not con- 
fonn to him, still less would he conform to the 
world. He had all the manly, baronial pride 
of his ancestors, though he had not all their 
wealth, and their means of generosity, hospi- 
tality, and patnmage. He had the will, alas! 
witliout the j)ower. 

** With tins temper, these feelings, this ge- 
nius, exposed to a combination of such un- 
toward and trying circumstances, it would 
indeed have been inimitably praiseworthy if 
Lord Byron could liavc been always wise. 
prudent,* calm, correct, nure, virtuous, and 
unassailable : — if he could have shown all the 
force and splendour of his mighty poetical cn- 
orLnes, without any mixture of their clouds, 
their baneful lightnings, or their storms: — if 
he coiild have preserved all his sensibility to 
every kind and noble passion, yet have "re- 
mained niacid, and imaflfected by the attack 
of any blameable emotion ; — that is, it would 
have been admirable if he had been an angel, 
and not a man ! 

" Unhappily, the outrages he received, the 
jjross calumnies which were heaped upon him, 
even in the time of his liighest favour with the 
public, turned the delights of his very days 
of lrinmj)h to pois(m, and gave him a sort of 
moody, fierce, and violent despair, wliich led 
to humours, acts, and words, that mutually 
affgravated (he ill-will and the offences be- 
tiveen him and his assailants. There was a 
daring spirit in his temper and his talents, 
which was always inflamed rather than cor- 
reete<l by opposition. 

** In tills most un propitious state of things, 
every thing that went wrong was attributed 
to Lord Byron, and, when once attributed, 
was assumed and argued upon as an undenia- 
Ide fart. Yet. to my mind, it is quite clear^ — 
<]uite unattended by a |)article of doubt, — that 
in many things in whicrh he has been the most 
blame<l, he was the alisolute victim of misfor- 
tune: that unpronitious trains of events (for 
I do not wi*<]i to shiO the blame on others) led 
to explosions and consequent derangementa, 
M'hich no colil, prudent pretender to extreme 
propriety and correctness could have averted 
or met In a manner less blameable than that 
in which Fxird Byron met it. 

"It is not easy to conceive a character less 
fitted to conciliate general society by his maxi- 
nei-s and habits, than that of I-.ord Bynm. It 
is j)robable that be could make his address 
and conversation pleasing to ladies, when he 
chose to plfase; but, to the young dandies of 
fashion, noble and ijrnoble, he must have been 
very rejmlsive : as long as he continued to be 
the Ion, — the lion, — tJiey may have endured 
him without opening thefr mouths, because he 
had a frown and a lash which the^' were not 
willing to encounter ; but when his back was 
turne<1, and they tliouijht it safe, 1 do not 
doubt that they burst out into full cry • I have 
heard complaints of his vanity, his peevish- 
ness, his desire to monopolize distinction, hii 
dislike of all hobbies but his own. It is not 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



improbable that there may have been some 
foundation for these complaints : I am sorry 
for it if there was ; I regret such littlenesses. 
And then another part of the story is proba- 
bly left untold : we hear nothing of the provo- 
cations given liim ; — sly hints, curve of the 
Up, side looks, treacherous smiles, flings at 
poetry, shrugs at noble authors, slang jokes, 
idiotic bets, enigmatical appointments, and 
boasts of being senseless brutes ! We do not 
hear repeated the jest of the glory of (he Jew, 
that buys the ruined peer's falling castle ; the 
d— d good fellow, that keeps the finest stud 
and the best hounds in the country out of the 
snippings and odds and ends of his contract ; 
and the famous good match that the duke's 
daughter is going to make with Dick Wigly, 
the son of the rich slave-merchant at Liver- 
pool ! We do not hear the clever dry iests 

whispered round the table by Mr. , eldest 

son of the new and rich Lord , by young 

Mr. , oiUy son of Lord , the ex-lorcS 

A., B., and C>., sons of the three Irish Union 
earls, great borough-holders, and the very 

Save and sarcastic Lord , who believes 
at he has tlie monopoly of all the talents, 
and all the political ana legislative knowledge 
of the kingdom, and that a poet and a bell- 
man are only fit to be yoked together. 

** Thus, then, was this illustrious and mighty 
poet driven into exile ! Yes, driven ! who 
would live in a country in which he had been 
so used, even though it was the land of his 
nativity, the land of a thousand noble ances- 
tors, the land of freedom, the land where his 
head had been crowned with laurels, — but 
where his heart had been tortured, where all 
his most generous and most noble thoughts 
had been distorted and rendered ugly, and 
where his slightest errors and indiscretions 
had been magnified into hideous crimes." 

Lord Byron's own opinions on the connu- 
bial state are thus related by Captain Parry : — 

" There are," said his lordship, " so many 
nndefinable, and nameless, and not-to-be- 
Dam^ causes of dislike, aversion^ and disgust, 
in the matrimonial state, that it is always im- 
possible for the public, or the best friends of 
the parties, to judge between man and wife. 
Theirs is a relation about which nobody but 
themselves can form a correct idea, or have 
any ri^ht to speak. As long as neither party 
commits gross injustice towards the other ; as 
long as neither the woman nor the man is 
gnilty of any offence which is injurious to the 
community ; as long as the husband provides 
for his offspring, and secures the public against 
the dangers ansing from their neglected edu- 
cation, or from the charge of supporting them ; 
by what right does it censure him for ceasing 
to dwell under the same roof with a woman, 
who is to him, because he knows her, while 
others do not, an object of loathing? Can any 
thing be more monstrous than for the public 
▼oice to compel individuals who dislike each 
other to continue their cohabitation ? This is 
at least the effect of its interfering with a re- 
lationsnip, of which it has no possible means 
of judging. It does not indeed drag a man to 
a woman*8 bed by physical force ; but it does 



exert a moral force continually and effectively 
to accomplish the same purpose. Nobody can 
escape this force but those who are too nigh, 
or tliose who are too low, for public opinion to 
reach; or those hypocrites who are, before 
others, the loudest in their approbation of the 
empty anc! unmeaning forms of society, thst 
they may securely indulge all tlicir propensi- 
ties in secret. I have suffered amazingly from 
this interference; for though I set it at defi 
ance, I was neither too high nor too low to be 
read sd by it, and I was not hypocrite enough 
to guard myself from its conse<iuences. 

"What do they say of my family affairs in 
England, Parry? My story, I suppose, like 
other minor events, interested the people for a 
day, and was then forgotten?" I replied, no; 
I tliought, owing to the very groat interest the 
public took in nim, it was still remembered 
and talked about. I mentioned that it was 
generaUy supposed a difference of religioai 
sentiments between him and I^ady Byron had 
caused the public breach. " No, Parry," wai 
the reply ; " Lady Byron has a liberal mind, 
particularly as to religious opinions ; and I 
wish, when I married her, that I had possess- 
ed the same command over myself that I noir 
do. Had I possessed a little more wisdom, 
and more forbearance, we might have been 
happy. I wished, when I was first married, 
to nave remained in the country, particularly 
till my pecuniary embarrassments were over. 
1 knew the society of London ; I knew tibe 
characters of many of those who are called 
ladies, with whom Lady Byron would neces- 
sarily have to associate, and I dreaded her 
contact with them. But I have too niuch of 
my mother about me to be dictated to : I like 
freedom from constraint; I hate artificial regD- 
lations : my conduct has always bct^n dictated 
by my own feelings, and Lady Byron was 
quite the creature of rules. She was not per- 
mitted eitlier to nde, or run, or walk, but as 
the physician prescribed. Slie was not suf- 
fered to go out when I wished to go ; and then 
the old house was a mere ghost-house; 1 
dreamed of ghosts,and thought of them waking. 
It was an existence I could not support." 
Hero Lord Byron broke off abruptly, saying, 
" I hate to speak of mv family alFairs ; tliough 
I have been compelled to talk nonsense con 
ceming them to some of mv butt ci fly visitors, 
glad on any terms to get rid of tlicir imiwrtu- 
nities. I long to be again on the mountains. 1 
am fond of solitude, and should never talk non- 
sense if I always found plain inrn to talk to." 

In the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted 
England, to return to it no more.* Tie crossed 
over to France, through which he passed 
rapidly to Brussels, taking in his way a sur- 
vey of* the field of Waterloo. Tie then pro- 
ceeded to Coblentz, and up tlie Ivhine to 
Basle. He passed the summer on the banks 
of the lake of Geneva. Witli what enthusi- 
asm he enjoyed, and with what contemplations 
he dwelt among its scenery, his own poetry 
soon exhibited to the world. His third cantooV 
Childe Harold , his Manfred, and his Prisoner 
of Chillon. Here composed at the Cnmpagfio 
DiodaH^ at Coligny, a mile from Geneva 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



xjn 



These productions eHdently proved, that 
the unfortunate events which had induced 
Lord Byron to become a Toluntarv exile from 
his native land, however they mignt have ex- 
acerbated his feelings, had in no measure chill- 
ed his poetical fire. 

The anecdotes that follow are ffiven as his 
lordship related them to Captain M edwin : 

*'*' Switzerland is a country I have been satis- 
fied with seeing once ; Turkey I could live in 
for ever. I never forget my predilections. I 
was in a wretched state of health, and worse 
n>irits. when I was at Geneva ; but quiet and 
toe lake, physicians better than Polidori, soon 
set me up. I never led so moral a life as durin^f 
my residence in that country ; but I gained 
DO credit by it. Where there is a mortifica- 
tion, there ought to be reward. On the con- 
trary, there is no story so absurd that they did 
not invent at my cost. ^ I was watched by 
riasses on the opposite side of the lake, an^ 
by glasses too that must have had very dis- 
torted optics. I was waylaid in my evening 
drives— 1 was accused of corrupting all the 
rruetles in the rue Basse. I believe tnat they 
looked upon me as a man-monster worse than 
tbe piV/iMTur." 

"1 knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsh 
was very civil to me ; and I have a great re- 
spect for Sismondi. I was forced to return 
the civilities of one of their professors by ask- 
ing him, and an old gentleman, a friend of 
Gray's, to dine with me. I had gone out to 
ail early in the morning, and the wind pre- 
vented me from returning in time for dinner. 
I understand that I offended them mortally. 
Polidori did the honours. 

" Among our countrymen I made no new 
acauaintaoces ; Shelley, Monk Lewis, and 
Hoohouso, were almost the only English peo- 
ple I saw. No wonder ; I showed a distaste for 
iociety at that time, and went little among the 
Genevese; besides, I could not speak French. 
What is become of my boatman and boat ? I 
suppose she is rotten ; she was never worth 
much. When I went the tour of the lake in 
her with Shelley and Hobhouse, she was nearly 
wrecked near tlie very spot where Saint- 
Preux and Julia were in danger of boiog 
drowned. It would have been classical to 
have been lost there, bat not so agreeable. 
Sbelley was on the lake much oftener than I, 
at all hours of the night and day: he almost 
lived on it ; his great rage is a boat. We arc 
both buihling now at Genoa, I a yacht, and 
he an open boat." 

** Somebody i)ossessed Madame de Stael with 
an opinion of my immorality. I used occa- 
siooaily to visit her at Coppet ; and once she 
invited me to a family-dinner, and I found the 
room full of strangers, who had come to stare 
at me a^ at some outlandish beast in a rarec- 
sbow. One of the ladies fainted, and the rest 
k)oked as if his satanic majesty had been 
among them. Madame de Stacl took tlie 
liberty to rrafl me a lecture before this crowd, 
to which I only made her a low bow." 

His lordsiiip's travelling equipage was 
radier a siujrular one, and afforded a strange 
catmlogoe rar the Dogana: seven servants, 



five carriages, nine horses, a monkey, a buU« 
dog and mastiff, two cats, three pea-fowls, and 
some hens, (I do not know wnether I have 
classed them in order of rank], formed part 
of his live stock; these, and all his books, 
consistincr of a very large library of modem 
works, (for he bought all the best that came 
out), together with a vast quantity of furni- 
ture, might well be termed, with Caesar, '' im- 
pediments." 

From about the commencement of the 3rea. 
1817 to that of 1820, Lord Byron's principal 
residence was Venice. Here he continued to 
employ himself in poetical composition with 
an encr^ still increasing. He wrote the La- 
ment of Ta&so, the fourth canto of Childe 
Harold, the dramas of Marino Faliero, and 
the Two Foscari ; Beppo, Mazeppa, and the 
earlier cantos of Don Juan, etc. 

Considering these only with regard to in- 
tellectual activity and force, there can be no 
difference of opinion ; though there may be 
as to their degree of poeticS excellence, the 
class in the scale of literary merit to which 
they belong, and their moral, religious, and 
political tendencies. The Lament of Tasso, 
which in every line abounds in the most per- 
fect poetry, is liable to no countervailing ob- 
jection on the part of the moralist. 

In the third canto of the " Pil^maee," the 
discontented and repining spirit of liarold 
had already become much softened : 

** Joy was not always absent from his face. 
But o*cr it in such KeDea would steal with tranqufl 
grace." 

He is a bein^ of still gentler mould in the 
fourth canto ; nis despair has even sometimes 
assumed a smilingness, and the lovely and 
lively creations of the poet's brain arc less 
painfully alloyed, and less suddenly checked 
oy the gloomy visions of a morbid imagina- 
tion. He represented himself, from the be- 
ginning, as a ruin ; and when we first gazed 
upon him, we saw indeed in abundance the 
black traces of recent violence and convul- 
sion. The edifice was not rebuilt ; but its 
hues were softened by the passing win^s of 
Time, and the calm slow ivy iiad found leisure 
to wreath the soft green of its melancholy 
amon^ the fragments of the decay. In so far 
the pilgrim became wiser, as he seemed to 
think more of others, and with a greater spirit 
of humanity. There was sometninff fiendish 
in the air with which he surveyed the first 
scene of his wanderings ; and no proof of the 
strength of genius was ever exhibited so 
strong and unquestionable as the sudden and 
entire possession of the minds of men by such 
a being as he then appeared to be. He looked 
upon a bull-fight and a field of battle with no 
variety of emotion. Brutes and men were, 
in his eyes, the same blinds stupid victims of 
the savage lust of power, lie seemed to shut 
his eyes to everj' thing of that citizenship and 
patriotism which ennobles the spirit of the 
soldier, and to delif^ht in scattering the dust 
and ashes of his derision over all the most sa- 
cred resting-places of the soul of man. Even 
then, we must allow, the original spirit oi tbt 



xxit 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



EniTliHliman and the poet broke triumphantly, 
at tliiiios, through the chilling; mist in wliich it 
had been spontaneously enveloped. In Greece, 
above all, the contemplation ot' Actinm, ^>a- 
lamis, Marathon, Thermonyhe, and Plataia, 
subdued the prejudices of him who had crazed 
unmoved, or with disilain, upon fields of more 
recent iih.ry. The nobility of rnanhoixl ap- 
peared to deli^lit this moody visitant ; and he 
accorded, without reluctance, to the shades 
of long departed heroes that reverent homaire 
which, in the strange mixture of envy and 
scorn wherewitli the contemplative so often 
regard active men, he had relused to the liv- 
ing, or to the newly dead. 

But there wouUf be no end of descantinc 
on the character of the Pilgrim, nor of the 
moral refl(?ctions which it awakens: we there- 
fore take leave of Childe Harold in his own 
beautiful language: 

Farpwt'll ! a word that must bo, and hath born — 
A sound which niakcii us Ungcr ; — y«-t, farcwrll ! 
Yc ! who have traced the Piljiriin to tlic sorno 
Which iH hiif last, if in your nicni<»ries dwell 
A thought which onco was his, if on yc swell 
A si no (c rccollcclion, not in vain 
He wore tiis sandal-shooii and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell! *♦♦♦♦♦ 

* 4 ii ^f itt * * * 

Alas ! we must now say farewell " for ever.^ 

Manfred was the first of Lord Byron's dra- 
matic poems, and, we think, the finest. The 
spirit of his genius seems there wrestling with 
tfie spirit of his nature, the struggle being for 
Itie palm of sublimity. Manfred has always ap- 
pearefl to us <»ne of the most genuine creations 
of tlie noble bard's mind. The melancholy is 
more heartfelt: the ooet does not here seem 
to scowl his brows, out they drop under the 
weight of his thoughts ; his intellect, too, is 
stronglv at work in it, and the stern haughti- 
ness of the principal character is altogether 
of an intellectual cast: the conception of this 
character is Milt(mic. The poet has made 
him worthy to abide amongst tliose " patace^ 
of nature," those " icy halls," " where forms 
and falls the avalanche." Manfred stands up 
against the stupendous scenery of the poem, 
and is as loHv, towering, and grand as the 
mountains: when we picture him in imagina- 
tion, he asssumes a shape of height and inde- 
pendent dignity, shining in its own splendour 
amongst the snowy summits which he was ac- 
customed to climb. The passion, too, in this 
composition, is fervid and impetuou**, but at 
the same time deep and full, which is not al- 
ways the case in Byron's producti(ms: it is 
serious and sincere throughout. The music 
of the lan£?uage is as solemn and as touching 
as that of the wind cominu through the l)end- 
ing ranks of the inaccessible Alpine forests; 
and the mists and vapours rullinir down the 
gullitrs and ravines that yawn horribly on the 
eye, are not more wild an<l striking in their 
appearance than are the supernatural crea- 
tions of the poet's fancy, whose magical airi-n- 
cy \^ of mighty impoft, but is nevfrtheh'ss 
continually surmounte<l by the high intrllcc- 
lual p<3wor. invincible will, and intrepid phi- 
Icjsophy of Manfircd. 



The first idea of the descnptive passages of 
this beautiful poem will be easily recognised 
in the following extract from Lord Byron's 
travelling memorandum book : 

"Sept. 22, 1816. Lett Thun in a boat, 
which carried us the length of this lake in 
tiiree hours. The lake small, but the banks 
tine — rocks down to the water's edge — landed 
at Newhouse. Passed Interlachen — entered 
u|K>n a range of scenes beyond all description 
or previous conception. Passcnl a rock bear- 
ing an inscription — two brothers — one mur- 
dered the other— just the place for it. After 
a variety of windings, came to an enormous 
rock— arrived at the foot of the mountain (the 
Jungfraw) — glaciers — torrents — one of these 
900 feet visible descent — lo<lge at the curate's 
— set out to see the valley — heard an avalanche 
fall, like thunder ! — glaciers enormous — stomi 
comes on — thunder and 1i;^htuin£r. and hail! 
all in perfection and beautiful. The torrent 
is in shape, curving over the nn-k. like the 
tail of the white horse streaming in the wind 
— ^^just as might be conceived Mould l>e that of 
the ' Pale Tforse,' on which Death is mounted 
in the Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor wa- 
ter, but a something between both ; its iln» " 
mense heiglit gives it a wave, a cur\'e, a 
spreading here, a coudension there — wonder- 
ful — indescribable. 

" Sejit. 2:5. Ascent of tlw? Wingren, the 
Dent trnrirffit shining like truth on one sidCi 
on the other the clouds rose from the opposite 
valley, curling up perpendicular prec'i^dcea, 
/ik'e the ftmm of the ocean of hctt dnnng^ a 
xprint^ title ! It was white and sulphur\\and 
immeasurably deep in appearance. The side 
we ascen«lr<l was of course not of so precipi- 
tous a nature, but on arriving at the summit 
we looked tlown on the other side upon a boil- 
ing sea of ch)ud, dashing against the crag on 
which we stood. Arrived at the Creendcr- 
w(d<l : mounted and rode to the hicher glacier 
— twiliiiht, but distinct — very fine — glacier 
like a frozen hurricane — starliglit beautiful — 
the whole of the day was fine, and, in point 
of weather, as the day in which Paradise was 
made. Passed whole woods of withered pines 
— all wiihei-ed — trunks stripped, and lifeles»— 
done by a single winter." 

Of Lord Byron's tragedies we shall merely 
remark, with reference to the particular na- 
ture of their tragic character, tliat the effect 
of them all is rather grand, terrible, and ter- 
rific, than mollifying, subduing, or natlietic. 
As dramatic poems, they possess much beauty 
and originality. 

The style and nature of the poem of Don 
Juan forms a singularly felicitous mixture of 
burlesque ami pathos, of humon)us observa 
tion, and the hiiiher elements of poeti<*al com- 
position. Never was the English language 
festooncfl into more luxurious stanzas than in 
Don Juan : like the dolphin sporting in its na 
live wav<'s, at every turn, however jrrotcsque 
displayini: a new hue and a new beauty, so 
the noble author there shows an ahsdlute cen- 
tred over his means, and at every catlence, 
rhyme, or constniction, however whimsical 
dclii^hts us with novel and magical associ^ 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



XX111 



liou. We wish, we heartily wish, that the 
fiBe|K)ctr>'wliich is so richly scattered through 
tbe iixtrea cantos of this^ most original and 
OKbt a^toni^hin!▼ production, had not been 
DQiulnp with very much t)iat is equally frivo- 
kus aa f(X)li>h; and siororcly do we re^rret, 
tidt the alloying dross of sensuality should run 
u freely through the othcrwitte rich vein of 
the author's v»*rse. 

WhiUt at Venice, Byron displayed a most 
Me instance of c«*nefositv. The house of a 
$boemaker, near Tiis lordsfiip's residence in 
St. Simuel, vf^s hiirnt to the ground, with 
erery article it contained, and the propriclor 
retlocedf with a large family, to the greatest 
indi^iice and want. When Ijord Byron as- 
ceraiited the alllicting circumstances of that 
cahmily, he not only ordered a new and su- 
perior habitation to \te immediately built for 
tJie sufferer, the whole cx|)ense of which was 
bwTio by his lonlship, but also presented the 
HDtortiinate trailesman with a sum equal in 
raj?je to the wliole of his lost stock in trade 
uid furuitiire. 

Ltml Byron avoided, as much as possible, 
an\ intercourse with his rountrj'men at Ven- 
ice: this woms to have l^een in a great mci- 
^w: niTc»siry, in order to prevent the iiitru- 
bi'jn c»r i.nperiincnt curiosity. In an appendix 
tooni^ i»f his potjms, written with reference to 
a btwk of travels, the author of which dis- 
cliiitiieii any wish to be introduced to the no- 
Me lonl, he lot^ily and sarcastically cha<itise^ 
tiie incivility of such a (gratuitous declaration, 
expresses his '"• utter abhorrence of any con- 
tact with the travelling Enj^lish;" anil thus 
crmcludcs: " Excejit Ixinls Lansdownc, Jer- 
sey, arid Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, Ham- 
nrrtiil. Sir Humphrey Davy, the late Mr. 
lA'Hi>, W. B:inlces, 'M. Hoppner, Thomas 
MiKire. Lonl Kinnainl, his brother, Mr. Joy, 
anJ Mr. Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have 
eYrhari^red a word with another Englishman 
siftip I left their country, and almost all these 
I tia'l known before. The others, and Go<l 
knows there were some hundreds, who bored 
me with letters or visits, I refused to have any 
communication with ; and shall be proud and 
happy when that wish becomes mutual.'* 

Affrsr a re*'idence of three years at Venice, 
Ixird Byron remov&i to Uavenna, towards the 
<*lj»«e of the year 1819. Here he wrote the 
Prophecy tif Dante, which exhibited a new 
iptH'irnen of tlie astonishing variety of strength 
and ex]i;«n«ion of faculties he possessed and 
exprri^ed. About the same time he wrote 
.Sar.i;inapalus, a tragedy: Cain, a mystery: 
aikl Heaven and Earth, a mystery, 't'hough 
there are Mwne obvi(»u.s reasons which render 
Sards napal us unfit for the English stace, it is, 
jh the whole, the most splendid spet imen 
whiih our Innguage affords of that species of 
Irannlv which was the exclusive objecrt of 
fjoni Hymn's ailmiration. Cain is one of the 
prifinctions which has subjected its noble au- 
(S'jr to th? severest denunciations, on account 
of the crime of^ impiety alleeed against it : as 
it ici-m* to have a tendency to call in question 
tiic J>enevolencc of Providence. ^ In answer 
U) the loud and general outcry which this pro- 



duction occasioned. Lord Byron observed, in 
a letter to iiis publisher, " ff * Cain' be bias- 
])hemous, *■ Paradise f^ost' is blasphemous, and 
the words of the Oxford gentleman, * Evil, be 
tliou my cix)d,' are from that very poem from 
the mouth of Satan; and is there anything 
FFiore in that of Lucifer in the mystery? 
^ Cain* is nothing more tlian a drama, not a 
piece (jf argument: if Lucifer and Cain speak 
as the first rebel and first murderer may be 
supposed to sneak, nearly all the rest of*^ the 
pi>rsonages talk also according to their char- 
acters ; and the stronger passions have ever 
been permitted t<» the drama. I have avoided 
introtlucing the Deity as in Scripture, though 
Milton does, and not very wisely either: but 
have adopted his angel as sent toC'ain instead, 
on pu^po^e to avoid sliocking any feelings on 
the subject, by falling short of what all unin- 
spired inen must fall short in, viz. giving an 
adecjiiate notion of the elfect of the presence 
of Jehovah. The old mysteries introduced 
him liberally enough, and all this I avoided in 
the new one." 

An event occurred at Bavenna during his 
Iordshi])'s stay there, which made a <leep im- 
pression on him, and to which he alludes in 
the fifth canto of Don Juan. The military 
commamiarit of the place, who, though sus- 
pected of being secretly a Carbonaro, waa 
too powerful a man to be arrested, was a^sas- 
sinated opposite to Lord Bymn s palace. His 
lordship had his foot in the stirrup at the usual 
hour of exercise, when his horse start e<l at 
the rejmrt of a gun : on looking up, T^ord By- 
ron perceived a man thmw d<»wn a carbine 
and run away at full speed, and another man 
stretched upon the pavement a few yards from 
himself; it was the unhappy commandant. A 
crowd was soon collected, but no one ventured 
to offer the least assi -stance. Lonl Byron di- 
rected his ser>'ant to lift up the blee<ling hotly, 
and carry it into his palace: though it was 
represented to him tliat by doinir so he would 
confirm the suspicion, which waii already en- 
tertained, of his belonging to the same party. 
Such an apprehension could have no elfect on 
Byron's mind, when an act of humanity was 
to be performed ; he assisted in bearing the 
victim of assassination into the house, and 
putting him on a bed. He was already dead 
from several woun«ls : "he a|)peared to have 
breathed his last without a struirgle," said his 
lordship, when afterwanls rwrotmting the af- 
fair. '* I never saw a countenance so calm. 
Flis adjutant followed the corpse into the house; 
T remember his lamentatitm over him: — 
Povero diavolo! non aveva fatta male, ancho 
ad un cane.' " The following were the noble 
writer's poetical reflections (in Don Juan) on 
viewing the dead body : 

" I ^A7jei\ (as ofl I Hazpd the Rnmo) 



To try if I could wrrnch niiffht out of death, 
Whir.h should coiifirm, or shake, or make a faith , 
But it was all a mvstrrv : — here wo arc. 

And ther« we go :— hut where ? Five bits ofleuli 
Or three, or two, or one, seuii very lar. 

And is this hlooil, then, fnrm'H l»ut to be shed? 
Can evcrv «jlenient our elements mar ? 
And air, isartli, water, fire,— live, and wp dead * 



XXIV 



UPE OP LORD BYRON. 



We whose minds comprehend all things 7 — No more : 
But let us to the story as before.'' 

That a being of such glorious capabilities 
should abstractedly, and without an attempt 
tJb throw the responsibility on a fictitious per- 
sonage, have avowed such startling doubts, 
was a danng which, whatever might then have 
been his pp; 'ate opmion, he ought not to have 
hazarded. 

" It is difficult," observes Captain Medwin, 
" to judge, from the contradictory nature of 
his writings, what the rcli^ons opinions of 
Lord Bvron really were From the conver- 
sations i held with him, on the whole, I am 
inclined to think, that if he were occasionally 
sceptical, and thought it, as he says in Don 
Juan, 

i * A pleasant voyage, Dcrhaps, to float 

Lake Pyrrho, m a sea of speculation,* 

yet his wavering never amounted to a disbe- 
lief in the divine Founder of Christ innity. 

** Calling on him one day," continues the 
Captain, "we found him, as was sometimes 
the case, silent, dull, and sombre. At length 
he said : * Here is a little book somebo<lv has 
sent me about Christianity, that has macfe mo 
very uncomfortable ; the roasoninrr seems to 
me very strong, the proofs are very stajr^ier- 
ing. I don't think you can answer it, Hhellcy, 
at least I am sure t can't, and what is more, I 
don*t wish it.' 

"Speaking of Gibbon, Lord Byron said: 

• 1j— B thought the question sot at rest 

in the History of the Decline and Fall, but I 
am not so easily convinced. It is not a matter 
of volition to unbelieve. AVho likes to own 
tliat he has been a fool all his life, — to unlram 
all that he has been taught in his youth, or 
can think that some of the best men that ever 
lived have been fools ? I don't know why I am 
considered an unbeliever. I disowned, the 
other day, that I was of Shelley's school in 
metaphysics, though I admired his poetry; 
Dot but what he nas changed his mode of 
thinking very much since he wrote the notes 
to "Queen Mab," which I was accused of 
having a hand in. I know, however, that / 
am considered an infidel. My wife and sister, 
when tliey joined parties, sent me prayer- 
books. There was a Mr. Mulock, who went 
about the continent preaching orthodoxy in 
politics and religion, a writer of bad sonnets, 
and a lecturer in worse prose, — he tried to 
convert me to some new sect of Christianity. 
He was a great anti-materialist, and abused 
Locke.' 

" On anoffier occasion he said : ' I have just 
received a letter from a Mr. Sheppard, in- 
closing a prayer made for my welfare by his 
wife, a few days before her death. The letter 
states that he has had the misfortune to lose 
this amiable woman, who had seen me at 
Ramsgate, many years a^ro, rambling among 
the cliffs; that she had been impressed with a 
sense of my irreligion from the tenor of my 
works, and had oflen prayed fervently for my 
conversion, particularlv in her last moments. 
The nrayer is beautifully written. I like de- 



votion in women. She must have been a <& 
vine creature. I pity the man who has lu^ 
her! I shall write to him by return of the 
courier, to condole with him, and tell him that 
Mrs. S. need not have entertained any con- 
cern for my spiritual affairs, for that no num 
U more of a ChrUhan than I am. whaterei 
my writings may have led her and others to 
suspect.' ' 

We have ^ven the above extracts from t 
sense of justice to the memory of Lord By- 
ron ; they are redeeming and consolatory evi- 
dences that his heart was far from being 
sheathed in unassailable scepticism, and, as 
such, ought not to be omitted in a preface to 
his iivork^ 

In the autumn of 18^1, the noble bard re- 
moved to Pisa, in Tuscany. He took up his 
residence there in the Lanfranchi palace, and 
engaged in an intrigue with the beautiful 
Giiiccioli, wife of the count of that name, 
which connexion, with more than his usual 
constancy, he maintained for nearly three 
years, during which period the countess wai 
separated from her husband, on an applica- 
tion from the latter to the Pope. 

The following is a sketch of this " fair en- 
chantress," as taken at the time tlie liaimn 
was formed between her and Byron. " The 
countess is twenty-three years of age, thouch 
she appears no more than se\:enteen or eigh- 
teen. Unlike most of the Italian women, her 
complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, 
large, dark, and languishing, are shaded by 
the longest eyelashes in the world, and her 
hair, which is ungathered on her head, pla)*! 
over her falling shoulders in a profusion of 
natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Ilcr 
figure is, iwrhaps, too much embonpoint for 
her heiglit; but her bust is perfect. Her 
features want little of possessing a Grecian 
regularity of outline : and she has the most 
beautiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It i§ 
impossible to see without admirintj — to hear 
the Guircioli speak without being fascinated. 
Her amiability and eentleness show them- 
selves in every' intonation of her voice, which, 
and the music of her perfect Italian, gives a 
peculiar charm to everj' thing she utters. 
Grace and elegance seem component parti 
of her nature. Notwithstanding that she 
adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the ex- 
ile and iwvertv of her aged father sometimes 
affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melan- 
choly on her countenance, which adds to the 
deep interest this lovely woman creates. Her 
conversation is lively without being learned; 
she has read all the best authors of her own 
and the French laneuaffc. She oflen conceals 
what she knows, from the fear of being thought 
to know too much, possibly from being aware 
that liOrd Byron was not fond of hives. He 
is certainly ver\' much attached to her, with- 
out beinff' actually in love. His description 
of the G<»orgioni in the Manfrini palace at 
Venice, is meant for the countes««. The beau- 
tiful sonnet prefixed to the ' Prophecy of 
D»nt<^* was audressed to her." 
The annexed lines, written by Byron when 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXT 



Be was about to quit Venice to joiD the count- 
ess at Ravenna, will show the atate of his 
feelings at that time: 

" River ' that roQett by the ancient walla 
Where dwells the lady of my lore, when she 

Walks by the brink, and there perchance rectdls 
A faint and fleeting memory of me : 

** What if thy deep and ample itream should be 
A mirror of my neart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee. 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ? 

■'What do I say— « mirror of my heart 7 
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong 7 

Such as my feelings were aJad are, thou art ; 
And such as thou art, were my passions long. 

** Time may hare somewhat tamed them; not for ever 
Thou OTerflow*8t thy banks ; and iiot for aye 

Thv bosom overboils, congenial river ! 
Thy floods subside, and mine have rank away— 

" But left long wrecks behind them, and again 
Borne on our old unchanged career, we move ; 

TVm] tendest wildly onward to the main, 
And I to loving one I should not love. 

** The current I behold will sweep beneath 
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet ; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
T^e twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

** She will look on thee ; I have loc^'d on thee 
Full of that thought, and firom that uKMnent ne'er 

Thv waters could I dream of, nante, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh fi>r her. 

** Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream ; 

Yes, they mil meet the wave I gaze on now : 
nine cannot witness, even in a dream. 

That happy wave repass me in its flow. 

<* The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep 7 

Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore ; 
I near thy source, she by the daric-blue deep. 

*^ But that which keepeth us apart is not 
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 

But the distraction of a various lot. 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

*■ A strainer bvcs a lady of the land. 

Bom far beyond the mountains, but his blood 

Is all meridian, as if nevei^fium'd 

By the bleak wind that duUs the polar flood. 

**My blood is all meridian ; -were it not, 
I had not left my clime ;--4 shall not be, 

In spile of tortures ne'er to bf forgot. 
A slave again of love, at least of thee. 

"T is vwn to struggle— let me perish young- 
Live as I lived, and love as I nave loved : 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 
And then at least my heart can ne'er be moved." 

It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried 
life than 1 jord Byron led at this period in the 
society of a few select friends. Billiards, con- 
versation, or reading, filled up the intervals 
tin it was time to taKe the evening-drive, ride, 
and piHtoUpractice. 

He dinca at half an hour after sunset, then 
drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Guic- 
cioli*s father, passed several hours in her so- 
ciety, returned to bis palace, and either read 

ITbsPo. 
C 4 



or wrote till two or three in the morning; 
occasionally drinking spirits diluted with wa- 
ter as a medicine; from a dread of a nephritic 
complaint, to which he was, or fanciea him- 
self, subject. 

While Lord Byron resided at Pisa, a seri- 
ous affray occurred, in which he was person- 
ally concerned. Taking his usual rioe, with 
some friends, one of them was violently jostled 
by a serjeant-major of hussars, who dashed, 
at full speed, through the midst of the party. 
They pursued and overtook him near the 
Piaggia e^ate ; but their remonstrances were 
answered only by abuse and menace, and an 
attempt, on the part of the guard at the gate, 
to arrest them. This occasioned a severe 
scuffle, in which several of Lord Byron's party 
were wounded, as was also the hussar. The 
conseauence was, that all Lord Byron's ser- 
vants (who were warmly attached to him, and 
had shown great ardour in his defence), were 
banished from Pisa ; and with them the Counts 
Gamba, father and son. Lord Byron was him- 
self advised to leave it ; and as the countess 
accompanied her father, he soon after joined 
them at Leghorn, and passed six weeks at 
Monte Nero. His return to Pisa was occa- 
sioned by a new persecution of the Counts 
Gamba. An order was issued for them to 
leave the Tuscan states in four days; and 
after their embarkation for Genoa, the count- 
ess and Lord Byron openly lived together, at 
the Lanfranchi palace. 

It was at Pisa tliat Byron wrote " Werner," 
a tragedy; the "Deformed Transformed," 
and continued his " Don Juan" to the end of 
the sixteenth canto. We venture to intro- 
duce here the followiu)? critical summary of 
this wonderful production of genius. 

The poem of Don Juan has all sorts of 
faults, many of which cannot be defended, 
and some of*^ which are disgusting; but it has, 
also^ almost every sort of poeticafmerit : there 
are m it some of*^ the finest passages Lord By- 
ron ever wrote ; there is amazing knowledge 
of human nature in it ; there is exquisite hu- 
mour; there is freedom, and bound, and vig- 
our of narrative, imagery, sentiment, and style, 
which are admirable ; there is a vast fertility 
of deep, extensive, and original thought ; ana, 
at the same time, there is the profusion of a 
prompt and most richly-stored memory. The 
mvention is lively ana poetical ; the descrip- 
tions are brilliant and glowing, yet not over- 
wrought, but fresh from nature, and faithful 
to her colours ; and the prevalent chamcter 
of the whole, (bating too many dark sf>ot8), 
not dispiriting, though gloomy, not misan- 
thropic, thoui^h bitter; and not lepulsivc to 
the visions of poetical enthusiai»m, though 
indignant and resentful. 

Lord B>Ton'8 acquaintance wiih Lei^h 
Hunt, the late editor of the Examiner, origm- 
ated in his grateful feeling for the manner in 
which Mr. Hunt stood forward in his histifi 
cation, at a time when the current of public 
opinion ran strongly against him. This feel- 
ing induced him to invite Mr. Hunt to the 
Lanfranchi palace, wlierc a suite of apart- 
ments were fitted up for him. On his arrival 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



ZTVU 



Svdmapalui, Cain, aad Foacari, 

Maficppl 

PnmKT of CluIIoQ 

&adrits 



1,100(. 

525 
430 



Total 15,455/. 

As is the case with many nien in affluent 
circamstanccs, Byron was at times more than 
generous; and again, at other times, what 
fflijzht be called mean. He once borrowed 
500/. io order to give it to the widow of one 
wiio bad been his friend : he frequently dined 
QD five Pauls, and once gave his bills to a lady 
to be examined, because he thought he was 
dtilvd. lie gave lOOU/. for a yacht, which 
be wU ai^n for JUO/., and refused to give the 
aHon tiioir jackets. It ought, however, to be 
obten'eii^ that generosit}^ was natural to him, 
aod tliat his avarice, if it can be so termed, 
was a mere whim or caprice of the moment — 
a rile Ijc could not long sustain. Pie once 
borrowed lOU/. to ^vc to the brother-in-law 
of Sou they, Colendge, the poet, when the 
latter was in distress. In bis quarrel with the 
laareate, he was provoked to allude to this 
circumstance, which certainly he ought not 
to have dcme. 

Byron was a great admirer of the Wavcrley 
ooveh, and never travelled witliout them. 
■*Tbey an*," said he to Captain Med win one 
day, *-'a library in themselves, — a perfect litc- 
rar\ treasure. I could read them once a-ycar 
frith new pleasure." During tliat morning, 
be liad l>oen reading one of Sir Walter's nov- 
eU. and delivered, according to Medwiu, the 
Ulovincr criticism: ^MIow diificult it is to 
lay any tiling new ! Wlio was that voluptuary 
of' antiquity, »vho offered a rewanl for a new 
pleahure? Perhaps all nature and art could 
Dot ^uirply a new idea." 

TJie" anxious and paternal tenderness Lord 
B>-ron felt for his daughter, is expressed with 
QQc^iuolh^d beauty and pathos in the first 
stanza of the thir^ canto of Childe Harold. 
"What do you think of Ada?" said he to Mcd- 
vio. It Making earnestly at his daughter's minia- 
tare, that hung by the side of his writing-ta- 
ble ** They tell me she is like me — hut she 
bas her mother's eyes. It is very odd that my 
mother was an only child ; — I am an only child : 
my wife is an only child; and Ada is an (»fily 
cliill. It is a sinpilar coincidence; that is 
the li-ast that can be said of it. I can't help 
thmkinir it was destined to bo so ; and perhaps 
it i<> \H-i,i. I was once anxious for a son : but, 
after our separation, was glad to have had a 
dauL'htcr: for it would have distressed me too 
much to have taken him away from Lady By- 
nm.and I could not have tnisted her with a 
ioo's e-lucatiou. I have no idea of boys beine 
broiight up by mothers. I suflTercd too much 
from ihut myself: and then, wanderine about 
the world as' I do, I could not take proper care 
oi'arliilJ: otlierwise I should not have left 
Alkjra. poor little thing ! at Ravenna, tshe 
'»'» bw-n a great resource to me, though I am 
not Ml fund of her as of Ada : and yet I mean 
to make their fortunes equal— there will be 
«Doiiirh for them both. I have desired in my 
will that Ail^^ ihiUl not marry an English- 



man. The Irish and Scotch make better hus- 
bands than we do. You will think it was an 
otld fancy ; but I was not in the best of hu- 
mours with my countrymen at tliat moment 
— you know the reason. I am told that Ada 
is a little termagant; I hope not. I shall write 
to my sister to Know if this is the case: per- 
haps! am wrong in letting Lady Byron have 
entirely her own way in her education. I hear 
that my name is not mentioned in her pres- 
ence ; that a green curtain is always kept 
over my portrait, as over something forbidden; 
and tJiat she is not to know that she has a 
father till she comes of age. Of course she 
will be tau«'ht to hale iiic ; she will be brought 
up to it. Lady Byron is conscious of all thisj 
and is afraid that I shall someday carry off 
her dau::hter by stealth or force. I mi^ht 
claim her of the Chancellor, without having 
recourse to cither one or the other ; hut 1 haa 
rather he unhanpy myself than make her 
mother so; pronuhly I shall never see her 
again." Here he opened his writing-desk 
and showed Captain Med win some hair, which 
he told him was his child's. 

Several years aero, Lord Byron presented 
his friend, Mr. Thomas Moore, with his 
" Memoirs," written by himself, with an un- 
derstanding that they were not to be publish- 
ed until after his death. Mr. Moore, with the 
consent, and at the desire of Lonl Byron, sold 
the manuscript to Mr. Murray, the bookseller, 
for the sum of two thousand guineas. The 
following statement by Mr. Moore, will how- 
ever show its fate: '* Without entering into 
the respective claims of Mr. Murray and my- 
self to the ]>roperty in these memoirs, (a 
question which now that they are destroyed 
can he but of little moment to any one), it is 
sufTiHent to >ay, that, believing the manuscript 
still to be mine, I placed it at the disposal of 
Ivord Byron's sister, Mrs. Leigh, with the sole 
reservation of a protest against its total de 
struction; at least, without previous nenisal 
and consultation among the parties. The ma- 
jority of the persons present disagreed with 
tliis opinion, and it was the onhf point upon 
which there did exist any difference between 
us. The manuscript was accordingly torn 
and burnt bef(»re our eyes, and I immediately 
paid to .Mr. Murray, in the presence of the 
irentlemen assembled, two thousand guineas, 
with interest, etc., being the amount of what 
I owe<l him upon the security of my bond, 
and for whic*}i I now stand indebted to my 
publishers, Messrs. Longman and Co. 

" Since then, the family of Lord Byron have, 
in a manner highly honourable to themselves, 
proposed an arrangement, by which the sum 
thus paid to Mr. Murray might be reimburs- 
ed me; but from feelings and considerations, 
which it is unnecessary here to explain. 1 have 
respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their 

o^Jcr." * _. * .u 

One evening, after a dinner-party at the 
Lanfranchi |)alace, his lordship wrote the fol- 
lowing drinking-song : 

" Fill the pobkt again, for I never before 

Fell the gtow tliat now gladdens my heart to iti eoia * 



xxviii 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



Let us drink — who would not? since, through lifo'i 

varied round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

** 1 have tried, in its turn, all that life can supply ; 
I have baskM in the beams of a dark rolling eye ; 
I have loved— who has not ? but what tongue will 

declare 
Tliat pleasure existed while passion was Uiere ? 

«In the days of our youth, when the heart's in its 

spring, 

And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had fnends— who has not ? but what tongue will 

avow 
That friends, rosy wine, are so f^thful as thou 7 

"The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
Friendship shifts with the sun-beam, thou never canst 

change; 
TImu grow'st old — ^who does not ? but on earth what 

appears. 
Whose virtues, like thine, but increase with our years. 

"Tet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 
We are jealous — who*s not ? thou hast no such alloy, 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more they eigoy. 

«* When the 8e.^ffon of youth and its jollity *s past. 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last, 
Then we find — who does not ? in the flow of the soul. 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

«< When the box of Pandora was opened on earth, 
And Memory^s triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was leifl— was she not ? but the goblet we kiss, 
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 

<* Long life to the grape ! and when summer is flown. 
The age of our nectar shall sladden my own. 
We must die — ^who does not / may our sins be forgiven ! 
And Hebe i^aU never be idle in neavcn." 



Before we close the details of what may be 
termed Lord Bj^ron's poetical life — before we 
enter on the painfullv interesting particulars 
connected with the last and noblest part he 
performed in his brilliant but brief career — 
we beg leave to introduce the following sum- 
mary of his character : 

There seems to have been something of a 
magical antidote in Lord Byron's ^mus to 
the strange propensities to evil arismg both 
from his natural passions and temper, and the 
accidental unpropitious circumstances of his 
life. In no man were good and evil mingled 
in such strange intimacy, and in such strange 
proportions. His passions were extraordina- 
rily violent and fierce ; and his temper, un- 
easy, bitter, and capricious. His pride was 
deep and gloomy, and his ambition ardent and 
uncontrollable. All these were exactly such 
as the fortuitous position of bis infancy, boy- 
hood, and first manhood, tended to aggravate 
by discouragements, crosses, and mortifica- 
tions. He was directly and immediately sprung 
from a stock of ola nobility, of a historic 
name, of venerable antiquity. All his alli- 
ances, including his father, had moved in high 
society. But this gay father died, improvident 
or reclcless of theTuture, and left him to waste 
his childhood in poverty and dereliction, in 
the remote town of Aberdeen, among the few 
Diatemal relations who vet would not utterly 
abandon his mother's shipwrecked fortunes. 



At the age of six years be became presump- 
tive heir to the family peerage, and at the age 
of ten the peerage devolved on him. He then 
was sent to the public school of Harrow ; but 
neither his person, his acquired habits, his 
scholarship, nor his temper, fitted hinri for this 
strange arena. A peer, not immediately is- 
suing^from the fashionable circles, and not as 
rich as fooUsh boys suppose a peer ought to 
be, must have a wondernil tact of society, and 
a managing, bending, intriguing temper, to 
play his part with eclat, or with comfort, or 
even without degradation. All the treatment 
which Lord Byron now received, confirmed 
the bitterness of a disposition and fceliogi 
naturally sour, and already augmented uf 
chilling solitude, or an uncongenial sphere oi 
society. 

To a mind endowed with intense sensibility 
and unextinguishable ambition, these circum* 
stances operated in cherishing melaucholy, 
and even misanthropy. They bred an intract- 
ability to the light humours, the hoartleM 
cheenulness, and all the artillery of unthink- 
ing emptiness by which the energies of the 
bosom are damped and broken. There were 
implanted within him tlie seeds of profound 
reflection and emotion, which grew in him to 
such strength, that the lameness, the petty 
passions, and frivolous desires of mankind in 
their ordinary intercourses of pleasure and 
dissipation, could never long retain him in 
their chains without weariness and disgust, 
even when they courted, dandled, flattered, 
and admired him. He was unskilled in their 
pitiful accomplishments, and disdained the 
trifiing aims of their vanity, and the tests of 
excellence by which they were actuated, and 
by which they judged. He never, therefore, 
enjoyed their blandishments, and, ere long, 
broke like a giant from their bonds. 

There can be no doubt, that disappoint- 
ments, working on a sombre temper, and the 
consequent melancholy and sensitiveness, aid- 
ing, and aided by, the spells of the muse, were 
LfOrd Byron's preservatives; at least, that the]l 
produced redeeming splendours, and momenti 
of pure and untainted intellect, and exalting 
ebullitions of grand or tender sentiment, oi 
noble passion, which, by fits at least, if nol 
always, adorned his compositions, and will foi 
ever electrify and elevate his readers. 

Had Lord Byron succeeded in the ordinar] 
way to his peerage, accompanied by the usua 
circumstances of prosperity and ease. — hac 
noUiing occurred capable of stiinulating t< 
strong personal exertions, the mighty s'.^i 
within nim had probably been worse thai 
neutral — they had worked to unqualified mis 
chief! In many cases, this is not the eflfect ol 
prosperity ; but Lord Byron's qualities wen 
of a very peculiar cast, as well as intense an< 
unrivallea in degree. 

When, in the spring of 1816, Lord Byroi 
quitted England, to return to it no more, h 
had a dark, perilous, and appalling prospec 
before him. The chances against the due fu 
ture use of his miraculous and fearful gifts o: 
genius, poisoned and frenzied as they were b' 
blighteia hopes, and all the evil incidents whJcl 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



XXIX 



y bHaOen him, were too numerous to be 
cakoUted without OTerwbehniog dismav! 
Fevpenons, of a sensibility a little above the 
coounoD, would have escaped the pit of black 
udoQinitigated despondence ! But Lord By- 
m'a disticity of mind recovered itself, and 
MOO roe to far hieher conceptions and pcr- 
fonnances than before. He passed the sum- 
mtr upon the banks of the lake of Geneva ! 
With what enthusiasm he enjoyed, and with 
vbat contemplations he dwelt among its sccne- 
rr.hbown poetry soon exhibited to the world! 
He las been censured for his peculiarities, 
kiftonwciad life, and his disre^rd of the habits, 
the decorums, and the civilities of the world, 
aod of the rank to which he belonged. He 
ini<,iit have pleaded, that the world rejected 
bim, and be the world ; but the charge is idle 
io itself, admitting it to have originated with 
hk own will. A man has a right to live in 
iditude, if he chooses it; and, above all, he 
who gives such fruits of bis solitude ! 

Id the autumn of 1822, Lord Bvron quitted 
Pin, and went to Genoa, where ne remained 
tfarooghout the winter. A letter written by 
his lordship, while at Genoa, is sin^ilarly 
boDoarable to him, and is tlie more entitled to 
ooticc, as it tends to diminish the credibility 
of an assertion made since his death, that he 
could bear no rival in fame, but instantly be- 
came animated with a bitter jealousy and ha- 
tred of any person who attracted the public 
attention from himself. If there be a living 
being towards whom, according to that state- 
men^ Lord Byron would have experienced 
mch a sentiment, it must be the presumed 
S'ltbor of " Waverley." And vet, m a letter 
to Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 1823, the 
following are the just and liberal expressions 
Qsed by Lord Byron, in adverting to a pam- 
phlet which had been recently published by 
Monsieur Beyle : 

^ There is one part of vour observations in 
the pamphlet which T shall venture to remark 
upon : — It regards Walter Scott. You say that 
his character is little worthy of enthusiasm,' 
at the tame time that you mention his produc- 
tions in the manner they deserve. I have 
known Walter Scott lone and well, and in 
occask)nal situations which call forth the real 
character, and I can assure you that his char- 
acter is worthy of admiration ; — tliat, of all 
men, he is the roost open, the most honour- 
able, the most amiable. With his politics I 
have nothing to do: they differ from mine, 
which renders it difficult for me to speak of 
them. But he is perfectly sincere in them, and 
sincerity may be humble, but she cannot be 
servile. I pray you, therefore, to correct or 
soften that passa^ Yon may, perhaps, at- 
tribute this officiousness of mine to a false 
affectation of candour, «ft I happen to be a 
writer also. Attribute it to what motive you 
please, but believe the truth. I say that Wal- 
ter Scott is as nearly a thorough good man as 
man can be, because I know it by experience 
to be the case." 

The motives which ultimately induced Lord 
Byron to leave Italy, and join the Greeks, 
ttniggling for eroancipatioD, are sufficiently 
c 2 



obvious. It was in Greece that bis high po- 
etical faculties had been first fully developed. 
Greece, a land of the most venerable and il- 
lustrious history of peculiarly grand and 
beautiful scenor\', inhabited by various races 
of the most wild and picturesque manners, 
was to him the land of excitement, — never- 
cloying, ncver-wea^>'ing, never-changing ex- 
citement. It was necessarily the chosen and 
favourite spot of a man of powerful and orig- 
inal intellect, of quick and sensible feelings, 
of a restless and untameable spirit, of various 
information, and who, above all, was satiated 
with common enjoyments, and disgusted with 
what appeared to fiim to be the formality, hy- 
pocrisy, and sameness of daily life. Dwelling 
upon that countr}', as it is clear from all Lord 
Byron's writings he did, with the fondest so- 
licitude, and being, as he was well known to 
be, an ardent, though, perhaps, not a very sys- 
tematic lover of freedom, he could be no un- 
concerned spectator of its recent revolution : 
and as soon as it seemed to him that his pres- 
ence might be. useful, he prepared to visit 
once more the shores of Greece. It is not 
improbable, also, that he had become ambi- 
tious of a name as distinguished for deeds as 
it was already by his writings. A glorious and 
novel career apparently presented itself, and 
he determined to try the event. 

I^rd Byron embarked at Leghorn, and ar- 
rived in C ephalonia in the early part of Au- 
gust, 1823, attended by a suite of six or seven 
friends, in an English vessel, (the Hercules 
Captain Scott), which he had chartered for 
the express purpose of taking him to Greece. 
His lordship had never seen any of the vol- 
canic mountains, and for this purpose the ves 
sel deviated from its regular course, in order 
to pass the island of Stromboli, and lay off that 
place a whole night, in the hopes of witness- 
ing the usual phenomena, but, for the first time 
within the memory of man, tlie volcano emit- 
ted no fire. The disappointed poet was obliged 
to proceed, in no good humour with the fabled 
forge of Vulcan. 

Greece, though with a fair prospect of ulti- 
mate triumph, was at that time in an unsettled 
state. The third campaign had commenced, 
with several instances of distinguished suc- 
cess — her arms were every where victorious, 
but her councils were distracted. Western 
Greece was in a critical situation, and although 
the heroic Marco Botzaris had not fallen in 
vain, yet the glorious enterprise in which he 
perished, only cliccked, ana did not prevent 
the advance of the Turks towards Anatolica 
and Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy 
of the best days of Greece, hailed with trans 
port Lord Bvron's arrival in that country, and 
his last act, before proceeding to the attack, 
in which he fell, was to write a warm invita- 
tion for his lordship to come to Missolonghi. 
In his letter, which he addressed to a friend at 
Missolonghi, Botzaris alludes to almost the 
first proceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, 
which was the arming and provisioning of 
forty Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the do- 
fence of Missolonghi. Afler the battle. Lord 
Byron transmitted bandages and medicinos^ 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



of which be had brought a large store from 
Italy, and pecuniary succour to those who had 
been wounded. He had already made a very 
generous otler to the government. lie says, 
in a letter, " I offered to advance a thousand! 
dollars a month, for the succour of Misso- 
longhi, and the Suliotes under Botzaris (since 
killed); hut the government have answered 

me through of this island, that they wish 

to confer with me previously, which is, in fact, 
saying they wish me to spend my money in 
some other direction. I will take care that it 
is for the public cause, otherwise I will not 
advance a para. The opposition say they, 
want to cajole me, and the party in power say 
the others wish to seduce mc; so, between the 
two, I have a difficult part to play : however, 
I will have nothing to do with the factions, 
UDless to reconcile them, if possible." 

liord Byron established himself for some 
time at the small village of Metaxata, in 
Cephalonia, and despatched two friends, Mr. 
Trelawney and Mr. Hamilton Browne, with 
a letter to the Greek government, in order to 
collect intelligence as to the real state of 
things. His lordship's generosity was almost 
daily exercised in his new neiglibourhood. He 
provided for many Italian families in distress, 
and even indulged the people of the countiT 
in paying for the religious ceremonies which 
they deemed essentialto their success. 

In the meanwhile. Lord Byron's friends 
proceeded to Tripolitza, and found Coloco- 
troni (the enemy of Mavrocordato, who had 
been compelled to flee from the presidency) 
in great power: his palace was filled with 
armed men, like the castle of some ancient 
feudal chief, and a good idea of his character 
may he formed from the language he held. He 
declared that he had told Mavrocordato, that 
unless he desisted from his intrisrucs, he would 

Sut him on an ass and whip him out of the 
lorea, and that he had only been withheld 
from doing so by the representation of his 
friends, who had said that it would injure the 
cause. 

They next proceeded to Salamis, where the 
congress was sitting, and Mr. Trelawney 
agreed to accomjiany Odysseus, a brave moun- 
tain chief, into Negropont. At this time the 
Greeks were preparing for many active en- 
terprises. Marc!0 Botzaris' brother, with his 
Suliotes and Mavrocordato, were to take 
charge of Mi^solonghi, which, at that time, 
fOctoher, 1823), was in a very critical state, 
being blockaded both by land and sea. " There 
have been," says Mr. 'Trelawney. " thirty bat- 
tles fought and won by the late Marco' Bot- 
zaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who 
are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens 
will b(? in aanjrer, and thousands of throats cut. 
A few thousand dollars would provide ships 
to relieve it ; a portion of this sum is raised — 
and I would coin my heart to save this key of 
Greece!" A report like this was sufficient to 
show the point where succour was most need- 
ed, and Lord Byron's determination to relieve 
Missolonghi, was still niore decidedly con- 
firmed by a letter, which he received from 
MaFrocordato. 



Mavrocordato was at this time endeaTour 
ing to collect a fleet for the relief of Misso* 
longhi, and Lord Byron generously oflerod to 
advance four hundred thousand piastres (about 
12,000/.) to pay for fitting it out In a letter in 
which he announced this his noble intention, 
he alluded to the dissensions m Greece, and 
stated, tliat if these continued, all hope of a 
loan in England, or of assistance, or even good 
wishes from abroad, would be at an end. 

" I must frankly confess," he says in bis 
letter, ^* that unless union and order are con- 
firmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and 
all the assistance which the Greeks could ex- 
pect from abroad, an assistance which might 
be neither trifling nor wortldess, will be sus- 
pended or destroyed ; and, what is worse, the 
great powers of turope, of whom no one was 
an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to 
favour her in consenting to the establishment 
of an independent power, will be persuaded 
that the Greeks are unable to govern them- 
selves, and will, perhaps, themselves under- 
take to arrange your disorders in such a way 
as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, 
and that are indulged by your frfends. 

" And allow me to add once for all, I desire 
the well-being of Greece, and nothing else ; 
I will do all f can to secure it ; but I candot 
consent — I never will consent to the Engli^ 
public, or English individuals beinjr deceived 
as to the real state of Greek affairs. The 
rest, gentlemen, depends on you; you have 
fought gloriously ; act honourably towards 
your fellow-citizens, and towards the world, 
and then it will no more be said, as has been 
repeated for two thotisand years, with the Ro- 
man historian, that Philopo^men was the last 
of the Grecians. Let not calumny itself (aiwl 
it is ditficult to guard airainst it in so difficult 
a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha with 
the patriot Greek in peace, after you have 
exterminated him in war." 

The dissensions amon^ the Greek chiefs 
evidently gave great pam to I^ird Byron, 
whose sensibility was keenly affected by the 
slightest circumstance which he consicJered 
likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. 
** For my part," he observes, in another of his 
letters, " I will stick by the cause, while a 
plank remains which can be honourai)ly clung 
to; if I ouit it, it will be by the Greeks* con- 
duct, and not the Holy Allies, or the holier 
Mussulmans." In a letter to his banker at 
Cephalonia, he says : " I hope thinfrs hero will 
go well, some time or other; I will stick by 
the cause as long as a cause exists." 

His playful humour sometimes broke out 
amidst the deep anxiety he felt for tlie sue* 
cess of the Greeks. He ridiculed, with great 
pleasantry, some of the supplies which had 
been sent out from En^lano by the Greek 
committee. In one of his letters, also, after 
alluding to his having advanced 4,000/., anc 
expecting to be called on for 4,(XK)/. more, he 
says: " How can I refuse, if they (the Greeks) 
will fight, and especially if I should happen 
to be m their company? I tlierefore request 
and require that you should apprise tny trusty 
and trastworthy trustee and banker, and 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



XXXI 



cro^vD and sheet-aDchor, Doaglas Kinnaird 
the honourable, that he prepare all moneys of 
mine, including the purchase-money gf Roch- 
dale manor, and mine income for the year A. 
D. \ijlU to answer and anticipate any orders 
or drafts of mine, for the good caufte, in good 
and lawful money of Great Britain, etc. etc. 
etc. May you hve a thousand years ! which 
is nine hun'drcd and ninety-nine longer than 
the Spanish Cortes constitution." 

All being ready, two Ionian vessels were 
ordereil, and, embarking his horses and ef- 
fects, [ jord Byron sailed from Argostoli on the 
29th of December. At Zante, his lordship 
took a considerable quantity of specie on 
boani, and proceeded towards Mis&olonghi. 
Two arridents occurred in this short passage. 
Count Gamba, who had accompanied his lord- 
ship fix^m Leghorn, had been charged with 
tlie vfAsel in which the horses and part of the 
money were emharked. When ofTChiarcnza, 
a point which lies between Zante and the 
place of their destination, they were surprised 
at daylitrht on findinj^ themselves under the 
bows of a Turkish frigate. Owing, however, 
(o ttie activity displayed on board Lord By- 
ron's vessel, and her superior sailing, she es- 
caped, while the second was fired at, brought 
to, an 1 carried into Patras. Count Gamba 
and his companions, being taken before Yusuff 
Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of 
some unfortunate men whom that sanguinar)' 
chief had sacrificed the preceding year at 
Previsa, and their fears would most prob- 
ably h:ive been realized, had it not been for 
the presence of mind displayed by the count, 
who, assuming an air of Tiauteur and indiffer- 
ence, accused the captain of the frigate of a 
6can<!aIous breach or neutrality, in firing at 
anil detaining a vessel under English colours, 
and concluded by informing YusufT, that he 
might expect the vengeance of the British 
government, in thus interrupting a nohleman 
who was merely on his travels, arjd bound to 
Cala'nos. The Turkish chief, on recognising 
in the master of the vessel a person who had 
B3ved his life in the Black Sea fifteen years 
tM^ore, not only consented to the vessel's re- 
lease, but treated the whole of tlie passengers 
with the utmost attention, and even urged 
tbern to take a day's sliooting in the neighbour- 
hood 

f )wing to contrary winds, Lord Byron's ves- 
sel WHS obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, 
a cluster of rocks within a few miles of Mis- 
ftoloiiuhi. While detained here, he was in 
considerable danger of being captured by 
the Turks. 

Lorrl Byron was received at Missolonghi 
with enthusiastic demonstrations of joy. No 
mark of honour or welcome which the &reeks 
could device was omitted. The ships anchored 
off the fortress, fired a salute as he passed. 
Prince Mavrocordato, and all the authorities, 
with the troops and the population, met him 
on his landing, and accompanied him to the 
bouse which had been prepared for him, amidst 
tJ^e sljouts of the multitude, and the discharge 
of cannon. 
One of the first objects to which be turned 



his attention, was to mitigate the ferocity with 
which tlie war had been carried on. Tlie very 
day of his lordship's arrival was si^nali/ed by 
his rescuing a Turk, who had fallen intQ the 
hands of some Greek sailors. The individual 
llius saved, having been clotlicd by his orders, 
was kept in the liouse until an opportunity 
occurred of sending him to Patras. Mor had 
his lordship been long at Missolonghi, before 
an opportunity presented itself for showing 
liis sense of Yusuff Pacha's moderation in re- 
leasing Count Gamba. Hearing that there 
were Jour Turkish prisoners in the town, he 
recpiestetl that they might he. placed in his 
hands. This being immediately granted, he 
sent tliem to Patras, with a letter addressed 
to tlie Turkish chief, expressing his hope that 
the prisoners tlicnccforward taken on both 
sides, would be treated with humanity. This 
act was followed by another equally praise- 
worthy, whi<!h proved how anxious Lord By- 
ron felt to give a new turn to the system of 
warfare hitherto pursued. A Greek cruiser 
having captured a Turkish boat, in which 
there was a number of passengers, chiefly 
women and children, they were also placed 
in tlie hands of Lord Byron, at his particidar 
recpiest; upon which a vessel was immediately 
hired, and the whole of them, to the number 
of twenty-four, »vere sent to Pre visa, provided 
with every requisite for their comfort during 
the passage. The Turkish governor of Pre- 
visa thanked his lordship, and assured him, 
that ho would take care equal attention shoula 
Ih) in future shown to tlie Greeks who might 
become prisoners. 

Another £rrand object with Lord Byron, and 
one which he never ceased to forward with 
the most anxious solicitude, was to reconcile 
tlio quarrels of tlie native chiefs, to make them 
frirndiv and confiding towards one another, 
and submissive to the orders of the govern- 
ment. He had neither time nor opportunity 
to carry this point to any great extent : much 
good was, however, done. 

Lord Byron landed at Missolonghi animated 
with military ardour. After paying the fleet, 
which, indeed, had only come out under the 
expectation of receiving its arrears from the 
loan wMiich he promised to make to the yrro- 
visional government, he set about forming a 
brigade of Suliotes. Five hundred of these, 
the bravest and most resolute of the soldiers 
of Greece, were taken into his pay on the 1st 
of January, lf»'24. An expedition against Le- 
panto was proposed, of which the command 
was given to Lord Byron. This expedition, 
however, had to experience delay and disap- 

f)ointment. The Suliotes, conceiving that the> 
lad found a patron whose wealth waM inex 
haustible, ana whose generosity was bound 
less, determined to make the most of the oo 
casion, and proceeded to the most extravagant 
demands on their leader for arrears, and un- 
der other pretences. These mouniaineers 
untameable in the field, and unmana/sreable id 
a town, were, at this moment, peculiarly dis- 
posed to be obstinate, riotous, and mercenary 
They had been chiefly instrumental in pre 
8cr\ing Missolonghi, when besieged the pr^ 



XXXIl 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



vious aiitumn by the Turks ; had been driven 
fniin their abodes; and the whole of their 
families were, at this time, in the town, des- 
titute of cither home or sufficient supplies. 
Of turbulent and reckless character, they 
kept the place in awe ; and Mavrocordato 
having, unlike the other captains, no sol- 
diers of his own, was glad to find a body of 
valiant mercenaries, especially if paid for out 
of the funds of another; and, consequently. 




who rudely demanded entrance into his house, 
was killed, and a riot ensued, in which some 
lives were lost. Lord Byron's impatient spirit 
could ill brook the delay of a favourite scheme, 
but he saw, with the utmost chagnu, that the 
Btate of his troops was such as to render any 
attempt to lead them out at that time imprac- 
ticable. 

The project of proceeding against Lepanto 
being tnus suspenaed,at a moment when Lord 
Byron's enthusiasm was at its height, and when 
he had fully calculated on striking a blow 
which coula not fail to be of the utmost ser- 
vice to the Greek cause, tlie unlooked-for dis- 
appointment preyed on his spirits, and pro- 
duced a degree of irritability, which, if it was 
not the sote cause, contributed greatly to a 
severe fit of epilepsy, with which he was at- 
tacked en the 15th of Februan'. His lordship 
was sitting in the apartment of Colonel Stan- 
hope, talking in a jocular manner with Mr. 
Parry, the engineer, when it was ohser>'ed, 
from occasional and rapid changes in his coun- 
tenance, that he was sufrcring under some 
strong emotion. On a sudden he complained 
of a weakness in one of his legs, and rose, but 
finding himself unable to walk, he cried out 
for assistance. He then fell into a state of 
nervous and convulsive agitation, and was 
placed on a bed. For some minutes his coun- 
tenance was much distorted. He however 
quickly recovered his senses, his spcecli re- 
turned, and he soon appeared perfectly well, 
although enfeebled ana exhausted by the vio- 
lence of the struggle. During the At, he be- 
haved with his usual extraordinary firmness, 
and his efforts in contending with, and at- 
tempting to master, the disease, are described 
as gigantic. In the course of the month, the 
attack was repeated four times ; the violence 
of the disorder, at len^h, yielded to the reme- 
dies which his physicians advised, such as 
bleeding, cold bathing, perfect relaxation of 
mind, etc., and he gradually recovered. An 
accident, however, happencil a few days aAer 
his first illness, which was ill calculated to aid 
the efforts of his medical advisers. A Suliote, 
accompanied by another man, and the late 
Marco Botzaris' little boy, walked into the 
Seraglio, a place which, before Ijord Byron's 
arrival, had been used as a sort of fortress and 
barrack for the Suliotes, and out of which they 
wero ejected with great difficulty for tlie re- 
ception of the committee-stores, and for the 
occupation of the engineers, who required it 
for a laboratory. The sentinel on ^uard or- 
dered the Suliote to retire, which being a spe- 



cies of motion to which Suliotes are not ae 
customed, the man carelessly advanced; upon 
which the serieant of the guard (a Germaa) 
demanded his business, ana receiving no sat- 
isfactory answer, pushed him back. Then 
wild warriors, who will dream for years of i 
blow if revenge is out of their power, are not 
slow to resent even a push. The Suliote struck 
again, the serjeant and he cli>sod and stm^ 
gled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from hn 
belt ; the serjeant wrenched it out of his hand, 
and blow tlie powder out of the pan. At thn 
moment. Captain Sass, a Swede, seeing the 
fray, came up, and ordered the man to bo ta- 
ken to the guard-room. The Suliote was thai 
disposed to depart, and would have done so ii 
the serjeant would have permitted him. Un- 
fortunately, Captain Sass did not confine him- 
self to merely giving the order for his arrest; 
for when the Suliote struggled to get away, 
Captain Sass drew his swora, and struck him 
witn the flat part of it ; whereupon the en- 
raged Greek new upon him, with a pistol in 
one hand and the sabre in the other, and at 
the same moment nearly cut off the CaptainHi 
right arm, and shot hfm through the head. 
Captain Sass, who was remarkable for_ hn 
mild and courageous character, expired in a 
few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of 
distinguished braver^'. This was a seriqus af- 
fair, and great apprehensions were entertained 
that it would not end here. The Suliotes re- 
fused to surrender the man to justice, alleging 
that he had been stnick, which, in SuDote 
law, justifies all the consequences which may 
follow. 

In a letter written a few days after Lord 
Byron's first attack, to a friend in Zante, he 
speaks of himself as rapidly recovering. "1 
am a good deal better," he observes, " tliongb 
of course weakly. The leeches took too much 
blood from im' temples the day after, and there 
was some difficulty in stopping it : but I have 
been up daily, and out in boats or on horse- 
back. To-day T have taken a warm bath, 
and live as tenipcrately as well can be, with- 
out any liquid but (vater, and without any ani- 
mal food." After adverting to some other 
subjects, the letter thus concludes : " Matters 
are here a little embroiled with the Suliotes, 
foreigners, etc. ; but I still hope better things, 
and will stand by the cause as lon^ as my 
health and circumstances will pennit me to 
be supposed useftil." 

Notwithstanding TiOrd Byron's improvement 
in health, his friends felt, from the first, that 
he ought to try a change of air. Missolonghi 
is a flat, marshy, and pestilential place, and. 
except for purposes of utility, never would 
have been selected for his residence. A gen- 
tleman of Zante wrote to him early in March, 
to induce him to return to that island for a 
time. To his letter the following answer wak 
received : — 

*' I am extremely obliged by vour offer of 
your country-house, as for all otber kindness, 
in case my health should require my removal; 
but I cannot quit Greece while there is a 
chance of my being of (even supposed) utility 
There is a stake worth millions such as I am. 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



xxxni 



aalwhQe I can stand at all^ I must staod by 
tbeciuse. While I say this, I am aware of 
Aedifficalties, and dissensions, and defects of 
tbe Greeks themselves: but allowance must 
tenndefor them by all reasonable people." 
Itnny be well imagined, after so severe a 
ft of illness, and that in a great measure 
broaght on by the conduct of the troops be 
bd taken into bis pay, and treated with the 
vtmost generosity, that Lord Byron was in no 
haDOor to pursue his scheme against Le- 
puto, eren supposing that his state of health 
nd been such as to bear the fatigue of a cam- 
paipi in Greece. The Suliotcs, however, 
ihonred some signs of repentance, and offered 
to pbce theinselTes at his lordship's disposal. 
Bot stiU they had an objection to the nature 
of the service : " they would not fight against 
rtone wsUs !" It is not surprising that the ex- 
pedition to Lepanto was no longer thought of. 
In conformity with our plan, we here add a 
idectioB of anecdotes, etc. connected with 
Loid Byron's residence at Missolon^hi. They 
are principally taken from Captain Parry s 
'^Last Days of Lord Bvron ;" a work which 
Meins to ns, firom its plain and unvarnished 
ityle, to bear the stamp and impress of truth. 
In speakinff of the Ureck Committee one 
day, his kirdship said — " I conceive that I 
have been already ctossIv ill-treated by the 
committee. In Italy, Air. Blaquiere, their 
asent, informed me that every requisite sup- 
pnr would be forwarded with all despatch. I 
was disposed to come to Greece, but I has- 
tened my departure in consequence of earnest 
loIicitatioDs. No time was to be lost, I was 
told, sod Mr. Blaquiere, instead of waiting 
on me at his return from Greece, left a paltry 
oote, which gave me no information what- 
ever. If I ever meet with him, I shall not fail 
to mention my surprise at his conduct ; but it 
bas been all of a-piecc. I wish the acting 
committee had had some of the trouble which 
iaa fiillen on me since my arrival here ; they 
stMild have been more prompt in their pro- 
ceeding, and would have known better what 
the country stood in need of. They would not 
lave delayed the supplies a day, nor have sent 
oat German officers, poor fellows, to starve at 
)rKsolongfai, but for my assistance. I am a 
pbin man, and cannot comprehend tlie use 
of printing-presses to a people who do not 
reaid. Here the committee have sent supplies 
of maps, I suppose, that I may teach the young 
mountaiDeers geography. Here are buglc- 
hoTDf, without Duglemen, and it is a chance 
if we can find any body in Greece to blow 
them. Books arc sent to a people who want 
guns: they ask for a sword, and the commit- 
tee give tnem the lever of a printing-press. 
Heavens ! one would think the corhmittee 
meant to inculcate patience and submission, 
and to condemn resistance. Some materials 
for constructing fortifications thev have sent, 
but thev have chosen their people so ill, that 
the work is deserted, and not one para have 
they sent to nrocnre other labourers. Their 
■ecretary, Air. Bowring, was disposed, I be- 
Seve, to claim the privilege of an acquaint- 
ttoe with me. He wrote me a long letter 

5 



about the classic land of freedom, the birth- 

f>lacc of the arts, the cradle of genius, the 
labitatiun of the gods, tlie heaven of poets, 
and a great many such fine things, i was 
obliged to answer )iim, and 1 scrawled some 
nonsense in reply to his nonsense ; but I fancy 
I shall get no mure such epistles. AVhcn I 
came to the conclusion of the poetry part of 
my letter, I wrote, * so much for blarney, now 
for business.' I have not since heard in the 
same strain from Mr. Bowring." 

'* My future intentions," continued he, " as 
to Greece, may be explained in a few words: 
I will remain nere till she is secure against 
the Turks, or till she has fallen under their 
power. All my income shall be spent in her 
service ; but, unless driven by some j^reat ne- 
cessity, I will not touch a farlliing of the sum 
intenacd for my sister's children. Whatever 
I can accomplish with my income, and my 
personal exertions, shall be cheerfully done. 
When Greece is secure against external ene- 
mies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their 
government as they like. One ser^'ice more, 
and an eminent service it will be, I think I 
may perform for them. You, Parry', shall 
have a schooner built for me, or I wiU buy a 
vessel ; the Greeks shall invest nie with the 
character of their ambassador or agent ; I will 
go to the United States, and procure that free 
and enlightened government to set the exam- 
ple of recognising the federation of Greece 
as an independent state. This done, England 
must follow the example, and then the fate of 
Greece will be permanently fixed, and she 
will enter into all her rights, as a member of 
the great commonwealUi of Christian Eu- 
rope." 

" This," observes Captain Parry, in his plain 
and manly manner, " was Lord nyron's hope 
and this was to he his last project m favour ot 
Greece. Into it no motive of personal ambi- 
tion entered, more than that just and proper 
one, the basis of all virtue, and the distin- 
guished cliaractcristic of an honoupble mind 
— the hope of gaining (he approbation of f^ood 
men. As an author, he had already attained 
the pinnacle of popularity and of fame ; but 
this did not satisfy his noble arribitioii. lie 
hastened to G recce, with a devotion to liberty, 
and a zeal in favour of the oppressed, as puro 
as ever shone in the bosom of a knight in tlic 
purest days of chivalry, to gain the reputation 
of an unsullied warrior, and of a disinterested 
statesman. He was by her unpaid, but the 
blessings of all Greece, and the ni^li lionours 
his own countr}'men bestow on his memory 
bearing him in their hearts, prove that he was 
not her unrewarded champion." 

Lord Byron's address was the most aflable 
and courteous perhaps ever seen ; his man- 
ners, when in a gcKxl humour, and desirous of 
hein^ well with his guest, were winninc, fas- 
cinating in the extreme, and thoucli bland, 
still spirited, and with an air of frankness and 
generosity— Qualities in which he was cer- 
tainly not deticiont. He was open to a fault 
—a characteristic probably the result of his 
fearlessness, and independence of the world; 
but so open was he, that his friends wer# 



XXXIV 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



obliged to be upon their guard with him. He 
was the worst person in the world to confide 
a secret to ; and if any charge against any 
body was mentioned to him, it was probably 
the first communication he made to the per- 
Bon in question. He hated scandal aud tit- 
tle-tattle—loved the manly straicht-forward 
course: he would harbour no doubts^ and 
never live with another with suspicions in his 
bosom — out came the accusation, and he called 
upon the individual to clear, or be ashamed 
of, himself. He detested a lie — nothing eo- 
I'ajzed him so much : he was by temperament 
a^ education excessively irritable, and a lie 
completely unchained him — his indignation 
knew no bounds. He had considerable tact 
in detecting untruth ; he would smell it out 
almost instmctively ; he avoided the timid 
driveller, and generally chose his companions 
among the lovers and practiscrs of smcerity 
and candour. A man tells a falsehood and 
conceals the truth, because he is afraid that 
the declaration of tha thing as it is will hurt 
Lim. Lord Byron was above all fear of this 
sort : he flinched from telling no one what he 
thought to his face ; from his infancy he had 
been afraid of no one. Falsehood is not the 
vice of the powerful: the Greek slave lies, 
the Turkish tyrant is remarkable for his ad- 
herence to truth. The anecdote that follows, 
told by Parry, is highly characteristic : — 

*• When the Turkish fleet was lying off Cape 
Papa, blockading M issolonghi, I was one day 
oroered by Lord Byron to accompany him to 
the mouth of the harbour to inspect the forti- 
fications, in order to make a report on the state 
they were in. He and I were in his own punt, 
a little boat which he had, rowed by a ooy ; 
and in a large boat, accompanying us, were 
Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants. As 
I was viewing, on one hand, the Turkish fleet 
attentively, and reflecting on its powers, and 
our means of defence ; and looking, on the 
other, at Prince Mavrocordato and his attend- 
ants, perfectly unconcerned, smoking their 
pipes, and gossiping as if Greece were libe- 
rated and at peace, and Missolonghi in a state 
of complete security, I could not help giving 
vent to a feeling of contempt and indignation. 
• What is the matter,' said his lordship, ap- 
pearing to be very serious, * what makes you 
80 angry. Parry ?' * I am not angry,' I replied, 
'my lord, but somewhat indignant. The 
Turks, if they were not the most stupid 
wretches breathing, might take the fort of 
Yasaladi, by means of two pinnaces, any night 
they pleased ; they have only to approach it 
with muffled oars; they will not be heard, I 
will answer for their not being seen ; and they 
may storm it in a few minutes. With eight 
inin-boats, properly armed witli 24-pounders, 
Biey might batter both Missolonghi and Ana- 
tolica lo the ground. And there sits the old 
gentlewoman, Prince Mavrocordato and his 
nroop, to whom I applied an epithet I will not 
here repeat, as if tney were all perfectly safe. 
They know their powers of defence are in- 
adequate, and they have no means of improv- 
ing them. If I were in their place, I snould 
be in a ferer a/ the thought of my own inca- 



pacit}^ and ignorance, and I should bum witii 
impatience to attempt the destruction of those 
stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks and 
Turks are opponents worthy, by their imbe- 
cility, of each other.' I had scarcely explain- 
ed myself fully, when his lordship ordered our 
boat to be placed alon^ide the other, and ac- 
tually related our whole conversation to the 
prince. In doing it, however, he took on him- 
self the task of pacifying both the prince and 
me, and though I was at first very angry, and 
the prince, I oelieve, very much annoyed, be 
succeeded. Mavrocordato afterwards showed 
no dissatisfaction with me, and I prized Loid 
Byron's regard too much, to remain long dsi- 
pieased wiu a proceeding which was only an 



unpleasant manner of reproving us both." 

" On one occasion (which we before sUghtlv 
alluded to), he had saved twenty-four Tundso 



women and children from slavery, and all iti 
accompanying horrors. I was summoned to 
attend him, and receive his orders, that every 
thing should be done which might contribute 
to their comfort. He was seated on a cushion 
at the upper end of the room, the women and 
children were standing before him, with tbrir 
eyes fixed steadily on him, and on his rij^t 
hand was bis interpreter, who was extractmg 
from tlie women a narrative of their sufier- 
ings. One of them, apparently about thirty 
years of age, possessing great vivacity, and 
whose manners and dress, though she was then 
dirty and disfigured, indicated that she wai 
superior in rank and condition to her com- 
panions, was spokeswoman for the whole. I 
admired the good order the others preserved, 
never interfering with the explanation, or in- 
terrupting the single speaker. I also admired 
the rapid manner in which the interpreter ex- 
plained every thing they said, so as to make 
it almost appear that there was but one 
speaker. — After a short time, it was evident 
tnat what Lord Byron was hearing, afi*ected 
his feelings — his countenance changed, hii 
colour went and came, and I thought he wai 
ready to weep. But he had, on all occasions, 
a ready and peculiar knack in turning con- 
versation from any disagreeable or unp^asanl 
subject ; and he had recourse to this expedi- 
ent. He rose up suddenly, and turning ixmud 
on his heel, as was his wont, he said something 
quickly to his interpreter, who immediately 
repeated it to the women. All eyes were in- 
stantly fixed on me, and one of the party, a 
young and beautiful woman, spoke very 
warmly. liord Byron seemed satisfied, and 
said they might retire. The women all slip* 
ped ofi" their shoes in an instant, and going up 
to his lordship, each in succession, accompa- 
nied by their children, kissed his hand fe^ 
ventlv, invoked, in the Turkish manner, a 
blessfng both on his head and heart, and then 

Suitted the room. This was too much for Loi^ 
lyron, and he turned his face away to con- 
ceal his emotion." 

" One of Lord Byron's household had sev- 
eral times involved himself and his master in 
perplexity and trouble, by his unrestrained 
attachment to women. In Greece this had 
been very annoying, and induced Lord Byroc 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xxxv 



to think of a means of curing it. A youn^ 
Snliote of the guard was accordingly dressed 
tplikcawoman, and instructed to place him- 
lelf in the way of the amorous swain. The 
biit took, and after some communication, had 
ntLer by signs than hy words, for the pair did 
Bot nndcr^tand each other's lanmia^re, Ihe 
iham Udy was carefully conducted Dytue pl- 
iant to one of Lord Byron's apartments, ifere 
the couple were surprised hv an enraged Su- 
liote, a hnshand provided for the occasion, 
xcooipanied hy half a do7.cn of his comrades, 
wiuse presence and threats terrified the poor 
hcqnev' almost out of his sensor. The noise 
of coor^ brought Lord Byroo to the spot, to 
hogb at the tricked serving-man, and rescue 
liim from the effects of his terror." 

** A few days after the earthquake, which 
took place oh the i!1st of February, as we 
vere all sitting at table in the evening, wc 
were soddcnly alarmed by a noise and a 
shakios of the Imiusc, somewhat similar to 
that iniich we had experienced when the 
nnhouakc occurred. Of course all started 
from tlieir places, and there was the same kind 
of coiifiMon as on the former even in 't, at 
which Byron, who was present, laughed im- 
moderately ; we were re-assured by this, and 
MXKi learnt that the whole was a metliod he 
had adopted to sport with our fears." 

*• The regiment, or rather the brigade, we 
formed, can be described only as Byron him- 
self describes it. There was a Greek tailor, 
wIk) had been in the British service in the 
loDian Islands, where he had married an Ital- 
ian woman. This lady, knowing something 
of tlie military servicc,'pctitioned Lord Byron 
to appoint lier husband master- tailor of the 
briijade. The suggestion was useful, and this 
paii of her petition was immediately granted. 
At the same time, however, she solicited tliat 
she might he permitted to raise a corps of 
women, to be placed under her orders, to ac- 
company the regiment. She stipulated for 
free quarters and ration* fur them, hut reject- 
ed all claim for pay. They were to be free 
of all incnmbrances, and were to wash, sew, 
cook, and otherwise provide for the men. The 
propu«ition pleased Lord Hyron, and, stating 
the matter to me, he said he hoped I should 
have no objection. J had been accustomed 
to !.ee women accompany the English army, 
and I knew that, though sometimes an incuni- 
hranoe. they were, on the whole, more bcne- 
firial than otherwise. In Greece, tliere were 
many circumstances which would make their 
vpvices extremely valuable, and I gave my 
consent to the measure. The tailor's wife du\ 
acrordini^ly recruit a considerable number of 
uniDcumhercd women, of almost all nations, 
bni principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, and 
NVgrij^ses. 'I was afraidt* said Lord Byron, 
*when I mentioned this matter to yon, you 
would bo crusty, and oppose it — it is the ver\' 
thin::. I-iet me see, my corps outdoes Faf- 
WatTs: there are English, Germans, French, 
Maltese, Kagusians,^ Italians, Neapolitans, 
Transylvanians, Russians, Suliotes, Morcotes, 
and Western Greeks in front, and, to bring up 
iHe rca«^. the tailor's wife and her troop. Glo- 



rious Apollo! no general had ever before such 
an army.' " 

" Lord Byron had a black proom with him 
in Greece, an American by birth, to wImuh he 
was very partial. Tie always insisted on this 
man's calling him IVIassa, wfienever he spoke 
to him. On one occasion, the ijroom ttwi with 
two women of his own complexion, who had 
been slaves to the Turks and liberated, hut 
had been loft almost to starve when the (.>rt!eks 
had risen on their tyrants. Beting of the saiiie 
colour was a bond of sympatliy between them 
and the groom, and he applied to me to give 
both these women quarters in the Seraglio. I 
granted the application, and mentioned it to 
Lord Byron, who laughed at the gallantry of 
his groom, and ordered that he sliould be 
brought before him at ten o'clock tlic next 
day, to answer for his presumption in making 
such an a])plication. At ten o'clock, accord- 
ingly, he attende<l his master with great trem- 
blfng and fear, but stuttered so when he at- 
tempted to speak, that he could not make 
himself understood ; Lord Byron endeavour- 
ing, almost in vain, to preserve his gravity, 
reproved him severely for his presumption. 
Blacky .stuttered a thousand excuses, and was 
ready to do any thing to appease his massa's 
anger. Ilis great yellow eyes wide open, he 
trembling from head to foot, his wanderinc 
and stuttering excuses, his visible dread — all 
lendeil to provoke lauphter; and Lord By- 
ron, fearing his own dignity would be hove 
overboard, told him to hold his tongue, and 
listen to his sentence. I was commanded to 
enter it in his memorandurn-book, and then 
he pronounced, in a solemn tone of voice, 
while Blacky stood aghast, expecting some 
severe punishment, the fidlowing doom : ' My 
determination is, that the children born of 
these black women, of which you may be the 
father, shall be my property, and I will main- 
lain them. AVhat say you ?' ' Go — Go — God 
ble^s you, massa, may you live preat while,' 
stuttered out the groom, and sallied forth to 
tell the good news to the two distressed wo- 
men." 

The luxury of Lord Byron's living at this 
time, may be seen from the following order, 
which he irave hi>< superintendent of the house- 
hold, for the daily expenses of his own table. 
It amounts to no more than one piastre. 

rAKAS. 

Rrcad, a pound and a half 13 



Wine 

Fish 

Olivf 



7 

is 

3 

40 



This was his dinner; hi*; breakfast consisted 
of a single disli of tea, without milk or sugar. 

The eirrumstances that allonded the death 
of this illustrious and noble-minded man, are 
described in the following plain and simple 
manner, by his faithful valet and coni-tant lol 
lower, Mr. Fletcher: — 

" My master," says Mr. Fletcher, ** con 
tinned his usual custom of riding daily, whei 
the weather would permit, until the 9th ot 
April. But on that Ul-fated day he got very 



XXXVl 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



wet; and on his return home, his lordship 
changed the whole of liis dress; hut he had 
been too long in his wet clothes, and the cold, 
of whicli he nail complained more or less ever 
since we led Ccphalonia, made this attack be 
more severely felt. Though rather feverisli 
during the night, his lordship slept pretty well, 
but complained in the morning of a pain in 
his bones, and a head-ache : this did not, how- 
crer, prevent him from taking a ride in the 
afternoon, which, I grieve to say, was his last. 
On his return, my master said that the saddle 
was not perfectly dry, from being so wet the 
day before, and observed that he thought it 
had made him worse. His lordship was again 
visited by the same slow fever, and I was sorrv 
to perceive, on the next morning, that his ill- 
ness appeare<l to be increasing. ^He was very 
low, and complained of not havincr had any 
sleep during the night. His lordship's appe- 
tite was also quite gone. I prepared a little 
arrow- root, of which he tooK three or four 
spoonfuls, saying it was very good, but he 
could take no more. It was not till the third 
day, the lt2th, that I began to be alarmed for 
my master. In all his former colds, he always 
slept well, and was never affected bv this slow 
fever. I therefore went to Dr. l3nino and 
Mr. Millin^en, the two medical attendants, 
and inquired minutely into every circumstance 
connected with my master's present illness : 
both replied that there was no danger, and I 
might make myself perfectly easy on the sub- 
ject, for all would be well in a few days. This 
was on the I3th. On the following day, I found 
my master in such a state, that I could not 
feel happy without supplicating that he would 
send to Zante for Dr. Thomas. After ex- 
pressing my fears lest his lordship should get 
worse, lie desired me to consult the doctors, 
which I did, and was told there was no occa- 
sion for calling in any person, as they hoped 
all would be well in a tew days. Here I should 
remark, that his lordship repeatedly said, in 
the course of the day, he was sure the doctors 
did not understand his disease ; to which I an- 
swered, ' Then, my lord, have other advice 
by all means.' ' They tell me,' said his lord- 
ship, ' that it is only a common cold, which, 
you know, I have had a thousand times.' ' I am 
sure, my lord,' said I, * that you never had 
one of so serious a nature.' ' I think I never 
had,' was his lordship's answer. I repeated 
my supplications that Dr. Thomas should be 
sent for, on the 15th, and was again assured 
that my master would be better in two or three 
days. After these confident assurances, I did 
not renew my entreaties until it was too late. 
With respect to the medicines that were given 
to my master, I could not persuade myself 
that those of a stnmg purgative nature were 
the oest adapted for his complaint, concluding 
that, as he had nothing on his stomach, the 
only effect would be to create pain; indeed, 
this must have been the case witli a person in 
perfect health. The whole nourishment taken 
oy my master, for the last eicht days, consist- 
ed of a small quantity of broth, at two or three 
different times, and two spoonfuls of arrow- 
nuit on the IStli, the day before his death. 



The first time I heard of there being any in- 
tention of bleeding his lordship, was on tlM 
15th, when it was proposed by Dr. Bruno, but 
objected to at first by my master, who asked 
Mr. Millingen if there was any great rcasOB 
for taking l)lood ? The latter replied that it 
might be of service, but added, it might be 
deterred till the next day ; and, accordingly, 
my master was bled in the right arm on t£e 
evening of the 16th, and a pound of blood wu 
taken. I observed, at the time, that it had ft 
most inflamed appearance. Dr. Bruno now 
began to say, that he had frequently urged mr 
master to be bled, but that he always refuseo. 
A long dispute now arose about the time thit 
had been lost, and the necessity of sending 
for medical aid to Zante ; upon which I wn 
informed, for the first time, that it would be 
of no use, as my master would be better, or 
no more, before the arrival of Dr. Thomai. 
His lordship continued to get worse, but I>. 
Bruno said, he thought letting blood agaii 
would save his life ; and I lost lio time in tell- 
ing my master how necessary it was to con- 
ply with the doctor's wishes. To this he jt* 
plied, by saying, he feared they knew notbiog 
about li'is disorder; and then, stretching ont 
his arm, said, ' Here, take my arm, and do 
whatever vou like.' His lordship contiooed 
to get wealcer, and on the 1 7th he was bled 
twice in tlie morning, and at two o'clock in 
the afternoon ; the bleeding at both times wai 
followed by fainting fits, and he would .have 
fallen down more than once, had I not caught 
him in my arms. In order to prevent such an 
accident, I took care not to permit bis lord- 
ship to stir without supporting him. On this 
day my master said to me twice, * I cannot 
sleep, and you well know I have not been 
able to sleep for more than a week ; I know,' 
added his lonlship, * that a man can only be 
a certain time without sleep, and then be mast 
go mad, without any one being able to save 
nim ; and I would ten times sooner shoot my- 
self than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying 
— I am more fit to die than people think !' 

*' I do not, however, believe that his lord- 
ship had any apprehension of his fate till the 
day after the 18th, when he said, *I fearyoa 
and Tita will be ill by sitting continually night 
and day.' I answered, * We shall never leave 
your lordship till you are better.' As my mas- 
ter had a slight fit of delirium on the 1 6th, I took 
care to remove the pistol and stiletto, which 
had hitherto been kept at his bedside in the 
night. On the 18th, his lordship addressed ine 
fre<iuently, and seemed to be very much dii* 
satisfied with his medical treatment. I then 
said, * Do allow me to send for Dr. Thomas?' 
to which he answere<l, * Do so, but be quick i 
I am sorry I did not let you do so before, as 1 
am sure thev have niistaken my disease' 
Write yourself, for I know thev would not 
like to see other doctors here.' t did not lose 
a moment in obeyinj; my master's onlers ; and 
on informing Dr. Bruno and Mr. Millingen 
of it, they said it was very right, as they now 
began to be afraid themselves. On returning 
to my master's room, his first words were 
* have you sent?' — * I have, my lord.* was my 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON 



XXlVll 



Kver: upon which he said, ' you have done 
ghi, hr 1 sbuula like to know what is the 
atterwith me.* Although his lordship did 
t ippear to think his dissolution was so near, 
eoald perceive he was getting weaker every 
rar. and he even began to have occasional 
Is of delirium. He afterwards said, ' 1 now 
esio to think I am seriously ill, and in case 
aoold be taken off suddenly, I wish to give 
oa several directions, which I hope you will 
e particular in seeing executed.' 1 answered 
wooM, in case such an event came to pass, 
at expressed a hope that he would live many 
eais to execute tnem much better himself 
Ian 1 could. To this my master replied, * No, 
t ii DOW nearly over;* and tlien added, '1 
ra»t tell you all, without losing a moment !' 1 
ben said,* *• Shall I go, my lord, and fetch pen. 
ak, and paper ?* — ^^ Oh, my God! no; you will 
ose too much time, and I have it not to spare, 
or my time is now short,' said his luraship, 
tnd immediately after, ' Now, pay attention !' 
^>s lordship commenced by savin;;, ' Vou will 
» provided for.' I begged hfm, however, to 
proceed with things of more consequence. lie 
Iheo continued, *■ Oh, mv poor dear chihi ! my 
ioLT Ada! my God ! could I but have seen her'! 
Give her mv blessinir — and my dear sister 
iluSD^ta, and her children : and you will go 
loLady Byron, and say — tell her cvcr>' thing, 
^jou arc friends with her.' Ilis lordship 
teemed to be greatly affected at this moment. 
Here my master's voice failed him, so tliat I 
coald only catch a word at intervals ; but he 
kept muttering somcthin*; very seriously for 
tome time, and would often raise his voice, 
nd laid, * Fletcher, now if you do not exe- 
cirte cver>' order which I have given you, I 
vill torment you hereafter, if possible.' Here 
I told his lordship, in a state of the greatest 
^erplexitv, that 1 had not undersfuod a wonl 
of what he said; to which he replied, *Oh. 
nvGod ! then all is lost, for it is now too late ! 
Can it be possible vou have not understood 
oer"—* \o, my lord,' said I, 'but I pray you 
to try and inform me once more.' * flow can 
I?' rejoined my master, 'it is now too late, 
and all is over!' I said, *Not our will, but 
God'i be done !' — and he answered, * Yes, not 
mine be done ! — but I will try.' His lordship 
did indeed make several efforts to speak, but 
coald only speak two or three words at a time, 
— «ich as ' My wife ! my child ! my sister ! — 
you know all — ^}'oii must say all —you know 
oy wishes' — the rest was ouitc unintelligible. 
A consultation was now held (about noon), 
when it was determined to administer some 
Peruvian bark and wine. My master had 
oow been nine days witliout any sustenance 
whatever, except what I have already men- 
tioned. With the exception of a few words, 
which can onlv interest those to whom they 
were addrcssecf, and which, il^requirtnl, I shall 
commnnicate to themselves, it was impossible 
toandcrstand any thing his lordship said aAer 
taking the bark. He expressed a wish to 
^p. 1 at one time askea whether I should 
call Mr. Parry, to which he replic<], 'Yes, 
yoo may call him.' Mr. Pairy desired him 
to compose himself. He shed tears, and ap- 
D 



parently sunk into a slumber. Mr. Parry 
went away, expecting to find him refreshed 
on his return, — but it was the commencement 
of the lethargy preceding his death. The last 
words I heani my /naster utter, were at six 
o'clock on the evening of the lUth, when he 
said, ' I must sleep now ;' upon which he laid 
down, never tn rise a^in! — for he did not 
move hand or foot durmg the following twen- 
ty-four hours. His lordship appeared, how- 
ever, to be in a state of suffocation at intervals, 
and bad a frequent rattling in the throat ; on 
these occasions, 1 called 'Tita to assist me in 
raising his head, and I thought he seemed to 
get ouite stifle The rattling and choking in 
the tliroat took place every half-hour, ana we 
continued to raise his head whenever the fit 
came on, till six o'clock in the evening of the 
19th, when 1 saw my master open his eyes and 
then shut them, but without showing any symp- 
tom of pain, or moving hand or toot. *Oh! 
my God !' 1 exclaimed, ' I fear his lordship is 
gone!' the doctors then felt his pulse, and said, 
'^You are right — he is gone !' " 

It would be vain to attempt a description 
of the universal sorrow that ensued at Misso- 
longhi. Not only Mavrocordato and his im- 
mediate circle, but the whole city and all its 
inhabitants were, as it seemed, stunned by this 
blow ; it had been so sudden, so unex pitted. 
His illness, indeed, had been known, and for 
the last three days none of his friends could 
walk in tlic streets, without anxious iniiuiries 
from every one, of " How is my lord ?" 

On the (lay of this melancholy event, Prince 
Mavrocordato issued a proclamation expres- 
sive of the deep and unfeigned crief felt by all 
classes, and ordering every public demonstra- 
tion of respect and sorrow to he paid to tlie 
memory of^ the illustrious deceasca, by firing 
minute-guns, closing all the public offices '^nd 
shops, suspending the usual Easter festivities, 
and by a general mournine, and funeral pray- 
ers in* all the churches. It was resolved that 
the body should be embalmed, and after the 
suitable funeral honomiihad been performed, 
should he embarked A* Zante, — thence to be 
conveyed to England. Accordingly the med- 
ical men opened the body and embalmed it. and 
having enclosed the heart, and brain, and in- 
testines in separate vessels, they placed it in 
a chest lineil with tin, as there were no means 
of procuring a leaden coffin capable of hold- 
ing the spirits necessary for its preser**ation 
on the voyage. Dr. Bruno drew up an ac- 
count of the examination of the body, by 
which it appeared his lordship's denth had 
been canstnl by an inflammatory fever. Dr. 
Meyer, a Swiss physician, who was present, 
and had acci<lentaliy seen Madame nc Siacl 
af^er her death, stated, that the formation o: 
the brain in both those illustriouH persons wab 
extremely similar, hut that Lord Byron had 
a mucli greater (juantity. 

On the a'id of April, 1024, in the midst of 
his own brigade, of the troops of the govern 
ment, and of the whole population, on the 
shoulders of the officers of his corps, relieved 
occasionally by other Greeks, the most pre- 
cious portion of his honoured remams wcrt 



UXVlll 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



carried to the church, where lie the bodies of 
Marco Botzaris and of General Normann. 
There they were laid down : the coffin was a 
rude, ill-constructed chest of wood ; a black 
mantle served for a palL, and over it were 
placed a helmet, a sword, and a crown of lau- 
rel. But no funeral pomp could have left the 
imprcsniun, nor spoKen the feelings, of this 
simple ceremony. The wretchedness and deso- 
lation of the place itself; the wild and half- 
civilized warriors present; their deep-felt, un- 
affected grief; the fond recollections ; the dis- 
appointed hopes ; the anxieties and sad pre- 
sentiments which might be read on every 
countenance— all contributed to form a scene 
more moving, more truly affecting, than per- 
haps was ever before witnessed round the grave 
of a great man. 

When the funeral service was over, the bier 
was left in the middle of the church, where it 
remained until the evening of the next day, 
and was guarded by a detachment of his own 
briirade. The church was incessantly crowd- 
ed by those who came to honour and to regret 
the benefactor of Greece. In ttie evening of 
the 2;3d, the bier was privately carried back 
by his officers to his own house. The coffin 
was not closed till the 29th of the month. 

Immediately afler his death, his countenance 
had an air of calmness, mingled with a se- 
verity, that seemed gradually to soften, and 
the whole expression was truly sublime. 

On May 2d, the remains of Lord Byron 
were embarked, under a salute from the guns 
of the fortress. " How different," exclaims 
Count Gamba, " from that which had wel- 
comed the arrival of Byron only four months 
affo!" After a passage of three days, the ves- 
sel reached Zante, and the precious deposit 
was placed in the quarantine house. Here 
some additional precautions were taken to en- 
sure its safe arrival in England, by providing 
another case for the body. On May the 10th, 
Colonel Stanhope arrived at Zante, from the 
Morea, and, as he was on his way back to 
England, he took char^ of Lord Byron's re- 
mains, and embarked Wth them on board the 
Florida. On the 35th of May she sailed from 
Zante, on the 29th of June entered the Downs, 
and from thence proceeded to Stangate creek, 
to perform quarantine, where she arrived on 
Thursday, July 1st. 

Jotm Cam llobhouse, Esq. and John Han- 
son, Esq. Lord Byron's executors, after hay- 
ing proved his will, claimed the body from the 
Florida, and under their directions it was re- 
moved to the house of Sir Edward Knatch- 
buU, No. 20, Great George-street, West- 
minster. 

It was announced, from time to time, that 
the body of Lord Byron was to be exhibited 
in state, and the progress of the embellish- 
ments of the poet's bier was recorded in the 
pages of a hundred publications. They were 
at length completed, and to separate the curi- 
osity of the poor from the adiniration of the 
rich, the latter were indulged with tickets of 
admission, and a day was set apart for them 
to zo and wonder over the decKcd room and 
the emblazoned bier. Peers and peeresses, 



priests, poets, and politicians, came in gflded 
chariots, and in hired hacks, to gaze upon the 
splendour of the funeral preparations, and to 
sec in how rich and how vain a shroud the 
body of the immortal bard had been hid. 
Those idle trappings, in which rank seems to 
mark its altitude above the vulgar, belonged 
to the state of the peer, rather than to the state 
of the poet ; genius req^uired no such attrac- 
tions, and all this magnificence served only to 
distract our regard from the man, whose iiH 
spired tonmie was now silenced for ever. 
Who carccTfor Lord Byron, the peer and the 
privy-counsellor, with his coronet, and hii 
long descent from princes on one side, and 
from heroes on botii ? and who did not care 
for George Gordon Byron, the poet, who has 
charmed us, and will charm our descendants, I 
with his deep and impassioned verse? The 
homage was rendered to genius, not surely to 
rank — for lord can be stamped on any clay, 
but inspiration can only be impressed on the 
finest metal. 

A few select friends and admirers followed 
Lord Byron to the grave — his coronet was 
borne before him, and there were many indi- 
cations of his rank ; but, save the assembled 
multitude, no indications of his genius. In 
conformity with a singular practice of the 
great, a long train of their empty carriages 
followed the mourning-coaches — mocking the 
dead with idle state, and impeding with barren 
pageantr>' the honestcr sympathy of the crowd. 
Where were the owners of those machines of 
sloth and luxury — where were the men of 
rank, among whose dark pedigrees Lord By- 
ron threw the light of his genius, and lent the 
brows of nobility a halo to which they were 
strangers ? Where were the great whies? 
where were the illustrious tones? could a 
mere difference in matters of human belief 
keep those fastidious persons away ? But, above 
all, where were the friends with whom wed- 
lock had united him ? On his desolate corpse 
no wife looked, no child shed a tear. We have 
no wish to set ourselves up as judges in do- 
mesTlc infelicities, and we are willing to be- 
lieve they were separated in such a way as to 
render conciliation hopeless ; but who could 
stand and look on his pale manly face, and his 
dark locks, which early sorrows were making 
thin and gray, without feeling tliat^ gifted as 
he was, with a soul above the mark of other 
men, his domestic misfortunes called for our 
pity, as surely as his genius called for our ad- 
miration ? 

As the cavalcade proceeded through the 
streets of London, a fine-looking honest tar 
was observed to walk near the hearse uncov- 
ered, throughout the morning, and on being 
asked by a stranger whether he formed part 
of the iuneT2l/:oriege, he replied, he came 
there to pay his respects to the deceased, with 
whom he had served in the Levant, when be 
made the tour of the Grecian Islands. T\m 
poor fellow was kindly offered a place by some 
of the servants who were behina the carriage, 
but he said he was strong, and had rather walk 
near the hearse. 

It was pot till Friday, J>ily 16th, that tb6 



LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 



interment took place. Lord Bvron was buried 
in the family Tanlt, at the Tilla^ of Huck- 
nall, eight miles beyond Nottmgham, and 
within two miles of the yenerable abbey of 
Newstead. He was accompanied to the jgra^e 
by crowds of persons ea|[er to show this last 
testimony of respect to his memory. In one 
of his earUer poems, he had expressed a wish 
that his dust might mingle with his mother's, 
and, in compliance with this wish, his cofl^ 
was pkiced in the vault next to hers. It was 
twenty minutes past four o'clock, on Friday, 
July J 6th, 1824, when the ceremony was con- 
cluded, when the tomb closed for ever on By- 
ron, and when his friends were relieved from 
every care concerning him, save that of doinj^ 
nutice to his memory, and of cherishing his 
rame. 

The following inscription was placed on 
the cofin : — 

« George Gotdon Noel Bjron, 

Lord Byron, 

of Rocndale, 

Bom in London,' 

Juu tt, 1788, 

fied at IkCnolong^ 

in Western Greece, 

April 19th, 1814.'* 

1 lb. OaAM ayi DoTtr, whidi it udonbtedly oorrteL 



An urn accompanied the coflin, and on it 
was inscribed : 

V Within this urn are deponted the heart, 

brain, etc 

of the deceased Lord Byron." 

An elegant Grecian tablet of white marble, 
has been placed in the chancel of the Hucknall 
church. We subjoin a copy of the inscnp* 
tion. 

The words are in Roman capitals, and di* 
vided into lines, as under : 

Iir TBK VAULT BBNXATH, 
WHE&K MAIIV or HIS AlfCSSTORS AND BIS MOTBBm 

ARE BURIED, 
LIE THE REMAIirs OF 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BTRON, 

LORD BYROir, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE couirrr or Lancaster; 

THE AUTHOR OV <*CHILDE HAROLD's PILORIMAaB.* 
HE WAS BORIf IN LONDON, ON THE 

22d or JANUARY, 1788. 

BE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN aREXC% 

ON THE 19th or APRIL, 1824, 

BNOAOED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RBSTOBB 

THAT COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM 

AND RENOWN. 



HIS SISTER, THE HONOURABLE 

AUGUSTA MARIA LEIOH, 

PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORV* 



COMPLETE WORKS 



OF 



]L(d:bq) :bt:b(D^<» 



HKnttfii of KTvlenefiKf* 



BMr* tip (U fidX* alvUf fii^rt n vckti. 

HoMXE. JUad. 10. 

He whistled as he went for want of thought. 

D&TDKir. 



10 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE 

miaHT or the garter, etc, 



BT BIB OBLiaXD WARD, AED ArEECTlOEATE EIE8MAE, 

THE AUTHOR. 



ON LEAVING NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 



Wlv deal thoo boild da hmOt Boo of the winged dayi ! 
Tbam lookot from thy towwr to-day; y«t a few yean, and the 
, of the deiert eomei; it howls m thy empty court. 

oesiAN. 



TxEOiroB thy bettleiBeBis, Newstetd, the hoUow winds 
whistle; 
TTwa, the hall t€my fttiMn, ut fone to decay; 
Is diy once smifing gai^bn, die henloek and thistle 
Have choked up the roee which late hloomM in the 
way. 

Of the maal-cofer'd barons who^ proadfy, to battle 
Led their rassals from Europe to Palestme's plain, 

Hm escutcheon and shield, which with erery blast rattle. 
Are the only sad testiges now that remain. 

No more dolh old Robert, with harp-slringii^ numbers. 
Raise a ilaroe in the breast, lor die war>4aiirePd wreath; 

Near Aikalon's Towers John of HorisCan> shnnbers. 
Unnerved is the hand of his mmstrel by death. 

Plud and Hubert too sleep, in die Tiley of Cressy ; 

For the safety of Edward and England they (eD ; 
Ify&thsffs! the tens of your oounlry redress ye ; 

Host you fought! how yon died! sdU her annals can 
lelL 

On Marston,* widi Rupert * 'gsinst traitors contending, 
Fov btudien snidi'd wididMir blood die bleak 6eld ; 



I 

Ir 

t 



Cmds^ hi 

bonle ef 
L were del 
oftheriseior 



thsissi iaihs 



aaeieiit seat of the 
tte adhereoti of 



leCharlesL Ho 
ofClMrksIL 



For the rights of a monarch, their country dcfendm{^ 
Till death their attachment to royalty sealM. 

Shades of heroes, &rewell ! your descendant departmg 
From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu ! 

Abroad or at home, your remfmbrance imparting 
New courage, he *il think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
rr is nature, not fear, that ezdtes his regret ; 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation. 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

That &me, and that memory, still will ho chcnsh. 
He TOWS that he ne*er will disgrace your renown j 

Like you mil he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. 

180S. 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 



Laeetius. 



Oh, Friend ! for ever lOved, for ever dear ! 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honoured bier ! 
What sighs re-echo*d to thy parting breath, 
While thou wast struggl'mg in the pangs of death * 
Could tears retard die tyrant in his coume ; 
Could sighs avert his dart^s relentless force , 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prev : 
Thou still had'st lived, to bless my aching sigm. 
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delighu 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



If, jret, thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
Hie spot, where now thy mouldering ariies lie, 
Here wilt thou tread, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor^s art« 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to wenp ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A fodier's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, 
Yet, other o^pring sooth his anguish here : 
But who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image what now firiendship can efface 7 
Ah, none ! a father's tears will cease to flow, 
Time will assuage an infant brother's vroe ; 
To all, save one, is consolation known, 
While solitary Friendslup sighs ak»e. 

180S. 



A FRAGMENT. 

Whkn to their ury hall my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
When, poisefd upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
(Ni ! may my shade behoki no sculptured urns. 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returm : 
No lengthen'd scroll, no praue-encumb«''d stooe ; 
My epitaph shall be ray name alone : 
If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay ; 
TVrf, onlylAaC, shall nngle out the spot, 
Bf that renember'd, or with that forgot. 

190S. 



THE TEAR. 



O Iscrvmaniin foas, tenero saeros 
DuceDtium ortus ex animo ; qoatar 
Folix ! in imo qui aeatentem 
Pectore te, ina Nympha, scniiit 



GRAY. 



Wbkk FViend^p or Love 

Our sympathies move ; 
When Truth in a glance shouM appear ; 

The Ups may beguile, 

With a dimple or smile. 
But the tMt of affection 's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile 

But the hypocrite's wile, 
To mask detestation or few ; 

Give me the soft ngh, 

Whilst the eoul-talliag eye 
b <&nm'd, for a time, with a Tear. 

«li Parity's glow. 

To IB Jbortals below, 
Shows die feoul from barbarity clear ; 

Comiiassion will melt. 

Where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

. The man doom'd to sail^ 
JHith the blast of the gale, 
biUoww Atlaolic to Haer s 



As he bends o'er the wave, 
Which may soon be his grave. 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The sokher braves death. 

For a fancifiil wreath. 
In Gbry's romantic career ; 

But he raises the foe, 

When in battle laid low, 
And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If^ with high-hounding pride, 

He return to his bride. 
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear ; 

All his toils are repaid. 

When, embracing the maid, 
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth. 

Scat of Friendship and Truth, 
Where love chased each fast-floeting year; 

Loth to leave thee, I moum'd. 

For a Ust look I tura'd. 
But thy sp'vo was scarce seen through a Tea 

Though my vows I can pour. 

To my Mary no more, 
My Mary, to Love once so dear ; 

In the shade of her bower, 

I remember the hour. 
She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest. 

May she ever live blest. 
Her name still my heart roust revere ; 

With a sigh I resign. 

What I once thought was mine. 
And forgive her decw^ with a Tear. 

Ye friends' ^y heart. 

Ere from you I depart. 
This hope to my breast is most near ; 

If again we shall meet, 

In this rural retreat. 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soul wings her flight. 

To the regions ot night. 
And my corse shall recline on its bier ; 

As ye pass by the tomb. 

Where my ashes consume, 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow 

The splendour of woe. 
Which the children of vanity rear ; 

No fiction of fame 

Shan blazon my name. 
An I ask, aU I wish, is a Tear. 

W 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 

Delivered previoue to the performance of " 7Ae 
of Fortune at aprivate theatre, 

SiHCK the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit. 
Which atamp'd disgrace oq att an Mithor wrtt; 



HOURS OP IDLENESS. 



to plewe with purer scenes we seek, 

call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 

«»>desl Muse some pity claim, 

tdoLgencc though she find not fame. 

her alone we wish respect, 

ar more conscious of defect ; 

) Veteran Roscti you behold, 

ts of scenic action old ; 

no Kemble, can salute you here, 

* draw the sympathetic tear ; 

n throng to witness the dtbut 

ictors, to the drama new. 

our almost unfledged wings we try; 

pimons, ere the birds «m fly ; 

is our first attempt to soar, 

as ! we fall to rise no more. 

r trembler, only, fear betrays, 

yet almost dreads, to meet your praise, 

dramatis Persona; wait, 

ense, thb crisis of their fate. 

ws our pn^ress can retard, 

tis plaudiu are our sole reward ; 

ich Hero all his power displays, 

leroine shrinks before your gaze : 

1st will some protection find, 

ioAer sex can prove unkind : 

li ind Beauty form the female shield. 

Censor to the fair must yield. 

jr fceUc effortit nought avail, 

all, our best endeavours fail ; 

i mercy in your bosoms live, 

an't applaud, at least forgive. 

THE DEATH OP MR POX. 

g UUberai Impromptu appeand m a 
Jdoming Paper, 

I foes lament, on Fox's death, 
hour when Pitt resign'd his breath ; 
I wide let Sense and Truth unclue, 
•aim where Justice points it due. 

Auihor of thete Piece$ aent the foOannB 
Reply, ^•— V 

viper! whose envenom'd tooth 

! still the dead, perverting truth ; 

our " oation*s foes" lament the fate, I 

I feding, of the good and great ; 

ongues essay to blast the name 

> meed exists in endless fame 7 

cpircd, in plenitude of power, 

»ss obscured his dying hour, 

wings before him spread, 

ts " war not with the dead." 

tears, a last sad requiem gave, 

s slumber'td in the grave ; 

las, bending 'neath the weight 

hdming our conflicting state ; 

lercules, in Fox, appear'd, 

if the ruin'd &bric rear'd ; 

I, who Britain's loss supplied ; 

ast-reviving hopes have died : 

eople only raise his urn, 

r-extended regions moum. 

I wide let Sense and Truth unclue, 

n where Justice points it due ;" 






Tet let not cankeHd calumny assaiL 

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy vei^ 

Pw! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep. 

Whose dear remauis in honour'd marble sleep 

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,' 

While fnends and foes alike his talents own^ 

Pox shall, in Britam's future annals, shine, ' 

Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign, 

Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred «««K 

For Pitt, and Pitt akme, has dared to ask. ' 



STANZAS TO A LADY. 
fVuh the Poeme qf Camoent, 
This votive pledge of fond esteem. 

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou 'k prize ; 
It sings of Love's enchantmg dream, 

A theme we never can despise. 
Who blames it but the envious fool. 

The old and disappointed maid? 
Or pupil of the prudish school. 

In single sorrow doom'd to fiuie. 
Then read, dear girl, with feeling read. 

For thou wik ne'er be one of those * 
To thee in vain I shall not plead, 

In piQr for the Poet's woes. 
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard ; 

His was no faint fictitious flame ; 
Like his, may k>ve be thy reward. 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 



TO M***. 

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire, 

Wkh bright, but miU aflection shine ; 
Though they might kindle less desire. 

Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair 

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam. 
We must admire, but still despair: 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteow both, 

So much perfection in thee shone. 
She fear'd that, too divine for eaith, 

The skies might claim thee for their owa. 
Therefore, to guard her dearest work. 
Lest angels might dispute the prize, 
She bade a secret lightning lurk 

Within those once celestial eyes. 
These might the boldest sylph appal. 

When gleaming with meridian blaze f 
Thy beauty must enrapture all. 

But who can dare thine ardeait gaze 7 
'T is said, that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns the vault of heaven j 
But they would ne'er permit thee there. 

Thou would'st so far outshine the seven. 
For, did those eyes as planets roll, 

Thy sister lights would scarce appear : 
E'en suns, which systems now control, 
Would twinkle dimly through their ipberK 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman! experience might have told me, 

That all muit love thee who behold thee, 

Surelji experience might have taught, 

Thy 6nneat promioe are nought ; 

But, placed in all thy charms before roe. 

All 1 forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh ! Memory ! thou choicest blessing ; 

When jom'd with hope, wrhen still posseaung ; 

But how much cursed by every lover, 

When hope is fled, and pasnon*s over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

How prompt are striplings to believe her ! 

How throbs the puUc, when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue. 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oatli, 

And hear her plight the willing troth ! 

Fondly we hope 't %vill last for aye. 

When, lo ! she changes in a day. 

This record will for over stand, 

" Woman ! thy vows are traced in sand."' 



TO M. S. G. 

When I dream that you love me, you 11 surety fbigive. 

Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone, your alfcction can live ; 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast. 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last ; 

What rapture eelcstial is mine ! 

They tell us, that slumber, tlie si^er of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given ; 
To fate liow I long to resign my frul breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven! 

Ah ! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem me too bappy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I alone for it now. 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Fboagh in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps, you may smile, 

Oh I thmk not my penance deficient ; 
Wlm dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



SONG. 

Wher I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the daric heath. 
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh ! Morvcn of Snow,* 

To gsse on the torrent that thunder'd beneath. 
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,* . 

1 llie 'isst line is almuct a litural translation from the B| 
proverb. 

3 Morven, a lofty mountain in Abf!rde<*n«hira : *' Oormal 
Snow.** ia an ezpreMiim IreiiuMillr to be ri>uiid in Qaian. 

3 Thin will not apprsr extraordinary to th«i«e who have 
iirciutoined to tho niuimtains : it is by no meant uncommcsi 
■iiiainuiir the top of llmi e vii. Ben y boiirri. etc. tii pcreA' 
t^weitn the mmmit and ihe valley, r lauds poor tnfdowl 
and. oeciuuonaliy. accompanied by lif hbiin«, while the spoo>' 
tiuir literally k)oks dowa oa the storm, perfectij seeuie from 
iuefl«rs 



Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fisar, 
And rude as the rocks where n^y infi^icy grew. 

No feeling, save one, to my boMxn was dear, 
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred m youT 

Yet, it could not be Love, for I knew not the name; 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child 7 
But, still, I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: 
One image, alone, on my bosom imprest, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
And fow were my wants, for my vrishes were blest. 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was w^lh jm 

I arose with the davm ; with my dog as my guide, 

IiVom mountain to mountain I bounded along, 
I breasted > the biUows of Dr^M * rushing ude, 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: 
At eve, on my heath-covcr'd couch of repose. 

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose. 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone. 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more; 
As the last of my race, I must wilher alone. 

And delight but in days I have witnessed before. 
Ah ! splendour has rais'd, but embittcrM my lot. 

More dear were the scenes which my infancy kne« 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are notforgfl 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with yuiL 

When I see some dark hill |X>int its crest lo the sky, 

1 think of the rocks that oVrsliodow Collilecn ; 
When I see the soft, blue of a lovo-spcoking eye, 

I think of those eyes that erulear'd the rude scene ; 
When, haply, some Ught waving locks I belield, 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, 

The locks tliat were sacred to beauty, and you. 

Yet the day may arrive, when the moimtaina, once mon 

Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow : 
But while these soar above me, unchanged as bcfora^ 

Will Mary be thorc to receive me 7 ah, no ! 
Adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred, 

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head ; 

All ! Mary, what home coukl be mine, but with yoi 



TO***. 

Oh ! jres, I will own we were dear to each other, 
The friendships of childhood, though fleecing, V 
true ; 

The love which you felt was the kwe of a brodier, 
Nor less the affection I cherisli'd for >'ou. 

lut Friendship can vary her gentle donunion, 
I |The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 
Ijubce Love too, she moves on a swift-waving pinioi^ 
Aut gk>ws not, like Love, with unquenchable finfc 



I 



4* Breaslinc the lofty surfs." — Skmkgpemrt. 



The Deo is a beautiful river, which rises nssr BlarLo49 
' and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. 

3 Colbleen is a mountain near the verte olT the BighlMi 
I not far from the ruins of Dee Castlsb 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



I wandcrM through Ida together, 
"e the scenes of our youth, I aOow ; 
our life, how serene is the weather I 
nidc tempests are gathering now. 

ifection shall Menuny blending 
Iclights of our childhood retrace ; 
ebi the bosom, the heart is unbending, 
old be Justice appears a disgrace. 

S— , for I still must esteem jou, 
m I love I can nerer upbraid, 
lich has lost, may in fiiture redeea joa, 
rill cancel the vow you have made. 

un, and though ch'dlM is aflectioo, 
rorroding resentment shall live ; 
ImM by the simple reflection, 
y be wrong, and that both should 

my soul, that my heart, my existence, 
nanded, were wholly your own ; 
naltcr'd, by years or by distance, 
ve and to 'Hendship alone. 

t away with the vain retrocpcction, 
affection no longer emiures ; 
ly droop o*er the fond recollection, 
he friend who was ibrmcrly yours. 

, we part, — 1 will hope not for ever, 
regret will re.<(»rc you at last ; 
ssension we both should endeavour ; 
emcnt, but days like the past. 



TO MARY, 
On receiving her picture, 

mblance of thy charms, 
g as mortal art could give, 
srt of foar disarms, 
opes, and bids mc live. 

;e the locks of gold, 
thy snowy forehead wave ; 
tich spninv from Beauty's mould, 
ch mudc nic Beauty's slave. 

•e ah no ! that eye, 

floats in Ikjuid fire, 
inter's art defy, 
from the task retire. 

s beauteous hue, 

ihe beam so sweetly straying? 

Ui>tre to its blue, 

cr the ocean pla3ring. 

r more dear to mc, 

eling as thou art, 

ins forms could be, 

I placeil thee next my heart. 

ad, with nerdlcss fear, 
^t lUiakc my wavering soul, 
tat her image, there, 
;nse in fast control. 

t)' years, thro' time, 'twill cheer; 
gloomy moments, raise ; 
Hict 'twin appear, 
'fbod expiring gaze. 



DAAL£TAS. 

Iif law an infant, I and in years a boy, 
In mind a slave to eveiy vicious joy. 
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd, 
In lies an adept, in decmt a fiend ; 
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child. 
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool. 
Old in the worid, tho' scarcely broke from school 
DamBtas ran through all the maze (^ sin. 
And found the ^oal, when others just begin ; 
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 
And, what was once his bUss, appears' lus banc 



TO MARION. 

Mabiok! why that pensive brow 7 

What disgust to life hast thou? 

Change that discontented air ; 

Frowns become not one so fair. 

'T is not love disturbs thy rest, 

Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 

He in dimpling smiles appears ; 

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears ; 

Or bends the languid eyelid down. 

But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire. 

Some will love, and all admire ; 

While that icy aspect chills us. 

Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile, at least, or so^m to smile ; 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs, in dark restraint; 

Spite of all thou fain wouldtit say, 

Still in truant lM*am8 they play. 

Thy lips, — but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse ; 

She blushes, curtsies, frowns, — in short, she 

Dreads, lest the subject should transport me : 

And flying off, in search of reason. 

Brings prudence back in projier season. 

All I shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think is neither here nor there). 

Is that such Ii|)8, of looks endearing. 

Were form'd ior better tilings than sneeiiDg ; 

Of soothing compliments divested. 

Advice at least disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to thee. 

From all the flow of flatter}' free ; 

Counsel, like mine, is as a brother's. 

My heart is given to some othen ; 

That is to say, unskill'd to cozen. 

It shares itself amongst a ddzon. 

Marion! adieu! oh! priiheo !>li|{ht not 

This warning, thouuh it may delight not : 

And lest my precepts be displeasing 

To those who think romonstmnce teaziiig. 

At once 1 11 tell thee o<ir opinioi^ 

Concerning woman's soft dominii n : 



1 In law. sTcnr person u an iafant who liasooC attaiMd 
•ge of twiatyooo. 



BIRON'S WORKS 



Howe'cr we gtzo with admiration, 
On cj'es of blue, or lip« carnation ; 
Howc'er the flowing locks attract us, 
However those beauties may distract us ; 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
These cannot fix our souls to k>ve ; 
It is not too severe a sthclurc. 
To say they form a pretty picture. 
But would'st thou see the secret chain, 
Which binds us in your humble train, 
To hail you queens of all creation, 
f low, in a word, *t is Arimatioh. 



OSCAR OF ALVA.' 



A TALE. 



How sweetly shmew, through azure skies. 
The lamp of heaven on Lora*s shore, 

Wliere Alva^s hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the dm of arms no more. 

But often has yon rolling moon 
On Alva*8 casque:* of silver playM, 

And viewed, at midnight's silent noon. 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail arravM. 

And on the crimsonM rocks beneath, 
Which scowl o*er occan*8 sullen flow. 

Pale in the scatterM ranks of death. 
She saw the gasping warrior k>w. 

While many an eye, which ne'er agun 

Coukl mark the rising orb of day, 
Tiim'd feobly 6fom the gory fJain, 

Behekl in death her lading ray. 

Once, to thojo eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light : 

But now, she glimmer'd from above, 
A sad funereal, torch of night. 

Faded is Alva's noble race. 
And grey her towers are seen afar ; 

No more her heroes urge the chase, 
Or roQ the crimson tide of war. 

But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And, when that gale is fierce and high, 

A sound is heard in yonder hall. 
It rises hoarsely through the sky, 

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Tes, when the eildying tempest sighs. 
It shakes the shield uf Oscar brave ; 

Jkut there no more his banners rise. 
No more his plumes uf sable wave. 

Fair slione the sun on Oitoar's birth, 
When Angtis hail'd his cldcjit bom ; 

Phe vassals round their chicflain's hearth. 
Crowd to applaud tlie happy mom. 

I Thn catastrophe of thi* tale was mifcested bf the sUny of 
' JsroDTmo and Lorenzo." in the firit volume of " The Ar^ 
■Midao. or Ohost^Bear :'* it also bears some lasenblanoe to 
iaifaathM Mtef **IUcheab" 



They feast upon the mountain deer. 
The Pibroch raised its piercing note, 

To gladden more their Highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers float. 

And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
Hoped that, one day, tlte Pibrnch*s strain 

Should play before the Hero's child, 
While he should lead the Tartan train. 

Another year is quickly pa^t. 

And Angus hailr another son, 
His natal day is like the la? t. 

Nor soon the jocund feast wu done. 

Taught by their sire to bend tlie bow. 
On Alva's dusky bills of wind, 

The boys in childhood chased tlie roc, 
And lefl their hounds in speed behind. 

But, ere their years of youth ire o'er 
They mingle in the ranks of war ; 

They lightly «icld the Iniglit claymore. 
And send tlie whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 
Wildly it streani'd along the gale ; 

But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
And pensive seemM liis cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a heroes soul, 

His dark eye slione through beams of tru 
Allan had early Icam'd control, 

And smooth his words had been from yo 

Both, h<Ah were brave ; the Saxon spear 
Was shiver'd ofl beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bonom scom'd to fear. 
But Oscar^s bosom knew to feel. 

While Allan's soul belied his form, 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell ; 

Keen as tlie lightning of the storm, 
On foes lus deadly vengeance felL 

From high Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame ; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came : 

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 
And Angus on his Oscar smiled ; 

It soothed the father's feudal pride, 
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

Hark ! to tlie Pibroch's ploaf>ing note. 
Hark ! to the swelling nuptial song ; 

In joyous strains the voices float, 
And still the choral peal prolong. 

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes, 
Asseiiiblcil wave in Alva's hall ; 

Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 
Attending on their chiefiuiii's call. 

It is not war their aid demands. 
The Pibroch plays the song of peace 

To 0.^ar*s nuptials throng the bands, 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease 

But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late: 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame 7 

While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
Nor Oicar nor his brother came. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



young Alan join'd the bride, 
comes not Oscar?" Angus said ; 
t here?" The youth replied, 
rae he roved not o*er the ^ade. 

ice, forgetful of the day, 
i to chase the bounding roe j 
*s waves prolong his stay, 
car's bark is seldom slow." 

!" the anguishM sire rejoin'd, 
ihase nor wave my boy delay; 
to Mora seem unkind ? 
aught to her impede his way? 

arch, ye chieft ! oh, search around ! 

with these through Alva fly, 

r, till my son is found, 

haste, nor dare attempt reply !" 

fusion — through the vale 
jne of Oscar hoarsely rings, 
I the murmuiing gale, 
,ht expands her dusky wings. 

the stillness of the night, 
iocs through her shades in vain ; 
through morning's misty U^t, 
car comes not o'er the plain. 

^s, three sleepless nights, the cluef 
car scarch'd each mountain cave ; 
e is lost in boundless grief, 
ks in grey torn ringlets vrave. 

my son ! — Thou God of heaven! 
s the prop of sinking age ; 
it hope no more is given, 
lis assassin to my rage. 

I some desert rocky shore, 
car's whiten'd bones must lie ; 
int, thou God ! I ask no more, 
lim his frantic sire may die. 

may live — away despair ; 
n, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
1 my fate, my voice forbear ; 
, my impious prayer forgive. 

if he Hve for me no more, 
forgotten in the dust, 
J of Alva's age is o*cr ; 
can pangs like these be just?" 

the hapless parent mourn, 
me, who soothes severest woe, 
e serenity return, 
lade the tear>drop cease to flow. 

lome latent hope survived, 
K«car might once more appear ; 
now droop'd, and now revived, 
me had told a tedious year. 

M along, the orb of light 
hnd run his destined race ; 
' hless'd his father's sight, 
trrow left a fainter trmM. 

iful Allan stiO remain'd, 
ow, his father's only joy : 
a*s heart was qinckly gain'd, 
auty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 



She thought that Osew low was kid, 
And Allan's fiuse was wondrous fiiir; 

If Oscar lived, some other mud 
Had claim'd his ftithlMi bosom's care. 



And Angus said, if one year more 
In (iruitless hope was paM'd away. 

His fondest scruple should be o'er. 
And he would name their nuptial day. 

Sk>w roO'd the moons, but blest at last. 
Arrived the dearly destined room ; 

The year of anxious trembUng past. 
What smiles the kiver's cheeks adorn ! 

Hark ! to the I^roch's pleasing note. 
Hark ! to the swelling nuptial song ; 

In joyous drains the voices float. 
And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd. 
Throng through the gate of Alva's bail , 

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, ndiose darken'd brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth? 

Before his ey«'s for fiercer glow 
The bUie flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 
And tall his plume of gory red ; 

His voice is Uke the rising storm. 
But light and trackless is his tread. 

nr is noon of night, the pledge goes round. 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaft) 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd , 
And Angus' check with wonder glows. 

And Mora's tender bosom Uush'd. 

'* Old man !" he cried, '< this pledge is done 
Thou saw'st 't was duly drunk by me, 

It hail'd the nuptials of thy son ; 
Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 

<* While all around is mirth and joy. 
To bless thy Allan's happy lot ; 

Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy ? 
Say why should Oscar be forgot?" 

** Alas !" the hapless sire replied. 
The big tear starting as he spdce ; 

« When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her course, 
Since Oscar's form has blest my sight ; 

And Allan is my last resource, . 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 

** 'T is well," replied tlie stranger stem, 
And fiercely flosh'd his rolling eye ; 

** Thy Oscar's fate I fain would leam ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

<* Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
Would call, thy Oscar m^ return ; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Perchmace dw dnef has only rofad. 
For him tfajr Behaiw I jtiimjhan, 

" Fin hi^ the bowl, the table rouDd, 

We H-ill not claiin the pled^ bj 
With wine let erery cup be crowi^d, 

Pledge me departed Oscar't heahh." 

« With aO raj fod,** old Angm said, 

And filTd his goblet fo the brim ; 
** Here *s to my boj ! alive or drad, 

I ne*er ahaD find a aoo Uke him.** 

** Bravely, old man, this health his aped, 
But why doea Aflan trembling ilaiid 7 

Coine, dnnk remembrance of the dead. 
And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was tum'd at once to ghastly hoe ; 

The drops of death each other chase, 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high. 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eyCy 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

** And is it thus a brother hails 
A brother's fond remembrance here? 

If thus affection's strength preraib, 
What might we not expect from fear?" 

Roused by the «neer, he raised the bovd ; 

" Would Oscar now codd share oar niirth V 
Internal fear appall'd his soul, 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

^ 'TIS he! I hear qy murderer's Toice," 
Loud shrieks a darkly-beaming Form ; 

'* A murderer's wmce !" the roof replies. 
And deeply swells the bunting storm. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink. 
The stranger 's gone, amidst the crew 

A Form was seen, in tartan green. 
And tan the shade terrific grew. 

IFis waist was bound with a broad belt round, 

His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there. 

And fiz'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wiM, 

On Angus, bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a Chief on the ground, 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The boiti loud roH, from pole to pole, 

Tho thunders through the welkin ring ; 
And the gleaming Form, through the mist of the storm, 

Was borne on high by the whiriwind's wing. 

Cold was tho feast, the revel ceased ; 

Who lies upon the stony fk)or7 
Oblivion prest old Angus' breast, 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

" Away, away, let the leech essay, 
To pour the light on Attan's eyes !" 

His sand is done,— his race is run, 
Oh ! never more shaU AUan rise ! 



1 B6ltaii«-Ti«e.-.A Hif hland fbthral, oo the 1st of May. 
hsM near flros Uf htsd for the oeeaskm. 



But Oscar's breast is eold aa day. 

His k>eka are lifted by the gale. 
And AUan's barbed arrow lay. 

With him in dark Gleotanar's vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came. 
Or who, no mortal wight can teU ; 

But DO one doubts the Form of Flame, 
For Alva's sons knew Oscar weU. 

Ambition nerved young AUan*s hand. 
Ending demons wing'd his dart. 

While Envy waved her burning brand. 
And pour'd her venom round lus heart. 

Swifl is the shaft from AUan's bow : 
Whose streaming life-bk>od stains hia adta 

Dark Oscar*s sable crest is low. 
The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's eye coukl Allan move. 
She bade his wounded pride rebel : 

Alas ! that eyes, which beam'd with love. 
Should urge the soul to deeds of HeU. 

Lo ! see'st thou not a lonely tomb, 
Whidi rises o'er a warrior dead ! 

It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave. 

Which held his clan's great ashes, stood ; 
And o'er his corse no banners wave. 

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, 
ShaU AUan's deeds on harp-strings raise 7 

The song b glory's chief reward. 
But who can strike a murderer's prmisa 7 

Unstrung, untoiich'd, the harp must stand. 
No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 

GuUt would benumb his palsied hand. 
His harp in shuddering chords would bic 4 

No lyre of fame, no haUow'd verse, 
ShaU sound his glories high in air, 

A dying father's bitter curse, 
A brother's death-groan echoes tliore. 

TO THE DUKE OF D. 



In kMking over mr paper*, to lelect a few additiooa' I 
for this wcnnd edition, I raond the fonowiog lines, wl 
hsd totally forgotteD, eompoied io the Bammer of 11 
■hort time previous to mjr departure Trom II——. 
were addressed to a yuong scbool-fellow of hiirh rank, 
had been mjr frequent comiMnion in some ntmbiet tin 
the neighbourinc country ; however he never «iw the 
and nxMit probably never will. As, on a re perusal, I I 
them not worse than some other pieces in the roileeti 
have now published them, for the first time, afW a : 
revision. 

D — R — T ! whose early steps with mine have str 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade. 
Whom, stiU, affection taught me to defend. 
And made mo less a tyrant than a fiiend ; 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bade t?iee obey, and gave me to command ;* 



1 At every public school, the junior boys aro eompl 
Bobservient to the upper forms, till they attain a seat i 
hif her cIsMes. From this state of probation, very prof 
no rank is exempt ; but after a certain period, they coan 
in turn, those who suceeod. 



HOURS OP IDLENESS. 



Iliee, oo whoM head a iew short yean will ihower 

The gift of riches, and the pride of power; 

Kvr-n 03W a name ilhutrious it thine own, 

Rt. n'>wnM in rank, not far beneath the tlmme. 

Yff, D — r — t, let not this sediico thy aool, 

To shun fair science, or erade control ; 

T^KKish passive tutors,* fearful to dispraise 

Th<.> titled child, whose future breath may raise, 

\'io-,\- flucal errors with indulgent eyes, 

And wink al faults they tranlde to diastise. 

When youthfiil parasites, who bend the knee 

To wealth, their golden idul, — not to thee ! 

And, even in simple boyhood's opening dawn, 

Si>ni«? slaves are found to flatter and to fawn : 

Whi.n these declare, ** tliat |KNnp akme should wait 

On one by birth predestined to be great ; 

That books were otAj meant for drudging fools ; 

That gallant spirits scrim the common rules;*' 

Bf liovc them not, — they point the path to shame, 

An>i seek to blast the honours of thy name : 

Tum to the few, in Ma's early throng. 

Who've soiils disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 

Or if, amidirt the comrades of thy youth, 

None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 

A-k thine own heart ! *t wiU bid thee, boy, forbear, 

Fi^r \rtfl I know that virtue Ungcrs there. 

Tf .« ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 

But now new scenes invite me far away; 

Yvt ! I have mark'd, within tliat generous mind, 

A suni, if well matured, to bless mankind : 

Ah : though myself by nature haughty, wild, 

Wh-Tim Indiscri^tion haiTd her favourite child, 

Thvjnh every error stam]is me for her own, 

A:i.l i^xxns my faO, I &in would fall alone ; 

7>i»j::h my firoud heart no precept now can tame, 

I !-<^tr the virtues winch I cannot claim. 

T i-c not enough, with other Sons of power, 

To ^-'.i-am the lambent meteor of an hour, 

Tn on ^11 Kome peerage page in feeble pride, 

Wwh long-drawn names, that grace no page beside ; 

Tl:' n «-hnre with titled crowds the common lot, 

In hi- Jnst gazed at, in the grave forgot; 

Wtiilf- nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, 

E\r*\ii the <hill coM stone that hides thy head, 

Tifr nuMildering 'scutcheon, or tho herald's roll, 

Tiat M-' II emblazoned, but neglected scroll, 

W'mi e fjords, uuImmioiu'M, in the tomb may find 

O.w 'po* to leave a worthless name behind ; — 

There «leep, unnoticed as tho gloomy vaults 

That teil their dust, their follies, and their faults ; 

A rate, with olii armnrial li<its o'erspread. 

In r* rordv destined never to be read. 

Fhih would I view thee, t^ith prophetic eyes, 

Kx^'^pd more among the eood and rna% ; 

A zf^nuM* and a long career pursue^ 

A« tirict in rank, the fir«t in talent too ; 

S.-rtini every vice, each Uttle roearmess shun, 

N t Foriune*s nunion, but her noblest son. 

1 .%!Idw me to disdaim nny pefsona] aDufioiM, oran the 
mi*\ diftiant ; I Bierely mention, i«neral|y« what is loo ofleo 



Tum to the annals of a former day,— 

Bright are the deeds tlune earlier £Ures display ; 

One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth, 

And callM, proud boast! the British Drama forth.' 

Another view ! not less rcnown'd for Wit, 

Alike f<)r courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 

Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine, 

In every s})ltindid part ordain'd to shiue ; 

Far, far dislingiiish'd from the glittering throng. 

The priilc of princes, and the boast of song.* 

Such were thy Fathers ; thus preserve their name. 

Not heir to titles only, but to Fame. 

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 

To mc, this little scene of joys and woes ; 

Each kncll of Time now warns me to resign 

Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all 

mine; 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue. 
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frowu'd away. 
By drt:ams of ill, to cloud some future day ; 
Fricndshij), whose truth let childhood only tcll^ 
Alas ! they love not long, who love »> welL 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark blue deep. 
Beheld by eyes that motim, yet caimot weep. 



r — t ! farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The coming morrow from tliy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
And yet, perhaps, in some mnturcr ycur. 
Since chance has thrown us in tlie self-same sphere. 
Since tho same senate, nay, the same debate. 
May ODC day claim our suffrage for the state. 
We hence may meet, and pass each other by 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe ; 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race ; 
No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice. 
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. 
Still, if the wL-ihes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it onj^t; 
If these, — but lot me cease the lengthen'd strain. 
Oh ! if those wishes are nut breathed in vain. 
The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate. 
Will leave thee glorious, as he fmuid thee grcai- 



1 "Thr)mii(i 8— k— ll<». T.ord B— k— #t, rrentMl Eail vi 

I) by Jamcfi the Fir«.t, wnn on« of the carhnit and bricht- 

eat omnniciitH to the poetry nf hi* country, nml the fint wIm 
produri>il a rff ular drania." — Andenon'ri Bntitik Poets. 

2 Charira S— k — Ho, Eiirl of I) , eittoonipil the moM 

ar.cumpni>hL-d man of hiit day. was ulike dijitin^ui)>hi>d in tho 
rolupliioiu rourl of Charlfi* II. and tho irloomy cim' of Wil- 
liam III. ffe hehavpd with nrnnt CMllanlry in the ai^a-fiRhl 
with the Ilutrh, in 1665, on the dry pr*'vioii« to which he 
coinpotied hit CflebratMl voiik. Ilia ('har:iriiti baa ttw.n draws 
in the hicheHtroIoura liy Drydcn, Pop«', Trior, and Congrev^ 
fide Andenoo'i British PotU. 



10 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ExannUtionB atCt KmCtatfoii0* 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO IIIS SOUL, WHEN 

DYING. 

AifiMCLA ! ragula, bfaudda, 
Ilospes, coinosque, coqKMru, 
Qus nunc abibis in loca? 
PalUdula, rigida, nudula, 
Noc, ut soles, <Ubis jocos. 



TRANSLATION. 

Ah ! gentle, fleeting, warering Sprite, 
Friend and associate of this day ! 

To what unknown region borne. 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more, with wonted humour gay. 

But pallid, checricss, and foriom. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 



u 



▲ D LESBIAM. 



n 



EqvAL to Jove that youth must be. 
Greater than Jove he seems to me. 
Who, free frcMn Jealousy's alanra. 
Securely views thy matchless charms ; 
That chedc, which ever dimpling glows. 
That mouth from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known, 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah ! Lesbia ! though H is death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
I needs must gaze, but gazing die ; 
Wlulst trembling with a thousand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres, 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
My limbs deny their slight support ; 
Cold dews my pallid face overspread. 
With deadly languor droops my head, 
My ears with tingling echoes ring. 
And life itself is on the wing ; 
My eyes refuse the cheering light, 
Thdr orbs are veilM in stariess night : 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath. 
And feeb a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION 
UP THE EPITAPII OX VIRGIL AND TIBULLUB. 

BY D0MITIU8 JffARSUS. 

He who, sublime, in Epic numbers roO^d, 
And he who struck the stofter lyre of love. 

By Death*8 unequal hand ' alike controlM, 
lit comrades in EUysian regions move. 



t The hand of Death is said to be unjust, or nneqaal, ss 
VkcS was ooosidorably older than TiboUis, at hk ' 



TRANSLATION FROM CATUU;i « 



" LUCTUS I)E MORTE PAtSXiL-V 



Ye Cupids, droop each little head. 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread ; 
My Lesb^*s favourite bird is dead. 

Whom dearer than her eves she loved ; 
For he was gentle, and so true. 
Obedient to her call he flew. 
No fear, no wild alarm be knew. 

But lightly o*cr her bosom moved : 
And softly fluttering here and there. 
He never sought to cleave the air ; 
But chirrupM oft, and, free th^m care, 

Tuned to her car his gratoful strain. 
Now having passM tlie gloomy bourn. 
From whence he never can return, 
His death, and Lesbians grief, I mourn. 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 
Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave. 
From whom no earthly power can save, 

For thou Imst ta'cn tlie bird away : 
From thee, my I^sbia^s eyes overflow. 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow. 
Thou art the cause of all her woe. 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATUU-US, 



TO ELLEIV. 



Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A milhon scarce would quench desire ; 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss. 
And dwell an age on every kiss ; 
Nor then my soul should sated be. 
Still would I kiss and clino to thee : 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
E*en though the number did exceed 
The yellow harvest's cotmtless seed ; 
To part would be a vain endeavour. 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never. 



TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON 



TO HIS LTHE. 



I WISH to tune my quivering lyre. 
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire ; 
To echo from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought, and nations fell ; 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war. 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
But, still, to martial strains unknown. 
My lyre recurs to luvc alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords arc stnmg anew. 
To war, to war my harp is due ; 



HOURS OP IDLENESS. 



1] 



Fith gaming string!, the 9p9C ftraia 
To Jore'i great w» I ruse a^ain ; 
Abdn and lus glorioiu dee<ky 
Btoeaih whose wm the Hydrm bleeds ; 
AH, ill in rain, my wayward lyre 
Wakes sBrer notes of soft desve. 
Meo! Te chie& renownM in annsl 
Adwu ! the clang of war's abrmi. 
To other deeds my soid is strong, 
And nreeter notes shall now be sung ; 
Mr harp shall all its powers rereal, 
To (fell the tale my heart must fed ; 
Lore, lore alone, my lyre shall daka, 
Inn^of bliss, and sighs of ftune. 



ODE m. 



Tvii ftiW the hour, f^en Night had drirea 
Her ear half round yon sable heaven ; 
Boom, only, acemM to roll 
Hb Arctic charge around the Pole ; 
While nnrtals, lost in gentle sle^ 
For^ to smile, or cease to weep ; 
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 
DesrwwTmg from the realms of joy, 
^inck to my gate directs lus course, 
iad knocks with all his little force : 
% ri<ioiu fled, alarmM I rose ; 
''What stranger breaks my blest repose?" 
** Alas !" replies the wily diild, 
*o Altering accents, gwectly mild, 
"A hapless infant here I roam, 
Fv fifotn my dear maternal home ; 
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast, 
The mighty storm is pouring (kst ; 
No prowling robber lingers here, 
A wandering baby who can fear 7" 
1 heard his seeming artless tale, 
I heard his sighs upon the gale ; 
My breast was never pity^s foe. 
But ielt for all the baby^s woe ; 
I drew the bar, and by the light, 
TooDj Lore, the infant, met my sight ; 
His bow across his shoulders flung, 
Aad (hence hb fatal quiver hung, 
(Ah! httle did I think the dart 
^Qold rankle soon within my heart ;) 
^tth care I tend my weary guest, 
Hit Httle fingers chiU my breast ; 
"* ^fy curls, his azure wing, 
"hich droop with nightly showers, I wring. 
H's shirenng limbs the embers warm, 
^ now, reviving from the storm, 
^^vce had he felt his wonted glow, 
«hafl swift be seized his slender bow : 
"I &hi would know, my gentle host," 
Be cried, *< if this its strength has lost ; 
* ^, relaxM %rith midnight dews, 
Thf itrinj;* their ferroer aid refuse:** 
^dh poison tipt, lus arrow ffies, 
"^ in my tortured heart it Ees : 
'ws kxid the joyous urchin laughed, 
Mf bow can still impd the shaft; 
^ii firaily fix*d, thy siighs reveal it; 
^ft courteous hoit, canst thuo not fed it?" 



FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 

ritOM THE PROMKTHKUS OF XSCHTLUS. 

Great Jove ! to whose Almighty thnme 

Both gods and mortals homage pay. 
Ne'er may my soul thy power di80*vn. 

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
Oft shall the sacred lictim fall 
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; 
My voice shall raise no impious stram 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 

How difl!erent now thy jojrless fate, 

Since first Hesione thy bride. 
When placed aloft in godlike state. 

The blushing beauty by thy side. 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled. 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled ; 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around. 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relendess frown'd. 

HarroWf Dec, 1, 1S04. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 

A FARAPHRA8E FROM THE flfEID, LIB. 9. 

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood. 

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 

Well sluUM in fight, the quivering lance to wield. 

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field , 

From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave. 

And sought a foreign home, a distant grave 

To watch the movements of the Daimian host. 

With him, Euryalus sustuns the post ; 

No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life. 

As yet a novice in the martial strife, 

'T was his, witli beauty, valour's gift to share, 

A soul heroic, as his form was feir ; 

These bum with one pure flame of generous kive, 

In peace, in war, united still they move ; 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward. 

And now combined, they hold the nightly guard. 

« What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire 7 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire? 
My labouring soul, with anxious thought opprest, 
Abhors tliis station of inglorious rest ; 
The love of fame with this can ill accord,— 
Be \ nune to seek for glory t\-ith my sword. 
See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb? 
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
Then hear my thought: — ^In deep and sullen gticf, 
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief; 
Now could the gifts and promised prize be ih'me 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine); 
Were this decreed — beneatli yon rising moimd, 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found. 
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls. 
And lead ^neas fix)m Evander's halls." 
With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy 
" These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone * 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ^ 



12 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Am I by thco detpitod, and left a&r, 
As one unfit to share the toils of war 7 
Not thus his SOD the great Opheltcs taught, 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
Not thus, when Dion fell by heavenly hate, 
I trackM iGncas tnrough the walks of &te ; 
Thou know*8t my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gofj ^ear ; 
Here is a soul with h(^ immortal bums. 
And life, ignoble Hfe, for CHory spurns ; 
Fame, fmne is cheaply tam'd by fleeting breath, 
The price of honour is the sleep of death.*' 
Then Nisus — " Calm thy bosom*s fond alarms. 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms ; 
More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth. 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth. 
But should I fall, and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance ; 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow. 
Should lay tlie firiend who ever loved thee low ; 
live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve. 
Thy budding years a IcngthenM term deserve ; 
When. humbled in the dust, let some one be. 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse : 
Or, if my destiny these last deny. 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Tliy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Wliy should thy doating wretched roolhor weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep 7 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
Wlio, fur thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 
** In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus, " it scorns control ; 
Hence, let us haste." — ^Their brother guards arose. 
Roused by their oill, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoyM up on Hope's exulting wing, 
l*hcir stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 
Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran. 
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hokl 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold ; 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield. 
And [loised, with easy arm, his ancient shield ; 
Wlicn Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithfid pur before the throne appear ; 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command. 
The elder first addrcss'd the hoary band. 

" With patience," thus Ilyrtacidea began, 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan ; 
V\ here yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam, 
Our ftlunibering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor hoed that we a secret path have traced. 
Between the ocean and the portal placed : 
Beneatli the covert of the tokening gmoke, 
Whose shade securely, our design will cloak. 



If you, ye chiefi, and Fortune will aOow, 
We 11 bend our course to yonder mountain's brow; 
Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight. 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night; 
Then shall ^ncas in his pride return. 
While hostile matrons raise their oflspiing's um, 
And Latian spoUs, and purpled heaps of dead. 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero*s tread ; 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way, 
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray . 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the vaBeys gleam." 

Mature In years, for sober wisdom famed. 
Moved by the speech, Alcthes here excloim'd: 
" Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye tsjse, 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth my fainting hopes revive. 
And Ihon's wonted gkxies still survive." 
Then, in his warm embrace, the boys he press'd, 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged bresst ; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew*d. 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd :— 
*'What gift, my countrymen, what martia] prize 
Can we bestow, which you may not despise? 
Our deities the first, best boon have given. 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on eiith. 
Doubtless, await such young exalted worth ; 
.£neas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, &r surpassing mine." 
lulus then : " By all the powers above ! 
By those Penates^ who my country love ; 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fiuie, I swear, 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight. 
And aO my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, 
Saved firom Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ; 
My sire secured them on that fatal day. 
Nor left such bowls an Argivo robber's prey. 
Two massy tripods also shall be thine. 
Two talents pdish'd from the glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup which Tynan Dido gave. 
While yet our vessels pressM the Punic wave : 
But, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
When great iEneas wears Hesperia's crown, 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed, 
Which Tumus guides with more than mortal qteed. 
Are thine ; no envious lot shall then lie cost, 
I pledge my word, irrevocably pass'd ; 
Nay more, twelve slaves and twice six captive dames, 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames. 
And all the realms which now the Latians t « ay. 
The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
But thqn, my generous youth, whose tender years 
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres. 
Henceforth aflTection, sweetly thus begun. 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
Without thy aid no glory shall be rmne. 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike, through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." * 



* HoMshold Gods 



BOUBfi OF IDLENESS. 



13 



Tb kn Enjains : ** No day s&aH fhame 
llbraiDg g^ones wtuclk from this I cUim. 
fomBe my &vour or the dues maj fiown, 
BoiTiloir, ipiie of fate, obtains renown. 
Tet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
OMbooDlbeg, the nearest to mjr heait : 
Hj mother q)niBg firom Priam's rojal line, 
I UethJoeeoDobled, banUy less divine; 
iVor Troy nor King Aoestes' realms restrain 
Her fecUed tge from dangers of the main ; 
Aloie dte came, all selfish Tears above, 
A higbtexunple of maternal lore. 
UflbMn, the secret enterprise I brave, 
hut grief iboald bend my parent to the grave : 
fVn thia akoe no fimd adieus I sedk, 
lio ftnoDg mother's Ups have press'd my cheek j 
BjghMoij Nighty and thy right hand, I vow 
Ba yuUDg tears would shake my purpose now : 
Do tfaoo, my prince, her (ailing age sustain, 
h dtte her much-loved chiki may live agun ; 
Uer dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
Aiut ha wants, relieve her fend distress: 
So dear a hope must all my loul inflame, 
Tb me ia gkiry, or to &A in fame." 
teoek with a fiKal care, so deeply felt, 
h tears, at once, the TVqjan warriors melt ; 
Filter than all, lulus* eyes overflow ; 
Sadi lore was his, and such had beoi Us woe. 
''jyithoa hast ask'd, recerre," the prince replied, 
"Nor thii akxK, bat many a gift beside ; 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my akn, 
Creaa*! ' style but wanting to the dame ; 
Fortme an adverse wayvrard course may run. 
Bat bieii'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
^, by my life, my Sire's most sacred oath, 
Tbthee I pledge my foil, my firmest troth, 
AOthe Ttwnrda which once to thee were vow'd, 
V thoQ ihooldst fen, on her shall be bestow'd." 
^ spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A ^itaniag felchion from the sheath he drew ; 
hjtMOB^t Utmost skill had graced the steel. 
For friends to envy and for fi>es to fed. 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's tpml, 
Sua nsdat the forest, in the hunter's toQ, 
''■Mheai, to guard the eUer youth, bestows, 
^dd Alelhes' casque defends hb brows ; 
^\ thence they go, triiile all the assembled trun, 
Tttiid their cause, imploce the gods in vain ; 
^thaa a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
^ holdt amidst the dnefe his place ; 
^ prayers he sends, but what can prayers avail, 
Uit is die murmurs of the sibling gale? 

^ hendh is past, and, fovour'd by the night, 
^^noidt sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
Whea shall the deep of many a foe be o'er 7 
^! some dumber who shall wake no more ! 
^^^■riola, and bridles, miz'd with arms, are seen, 
^ flowmg flasks, and scattered troops betw een ; 
B^ocbn and Bian to rule the camp eombine, 
Aaia^ chaos this of war and wine. 
"IVvv," cries the first, "for deeds of bkml prepare, 
^ift me the conquest and the labour share ; 
B«re lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 
^^ thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies ; 

1 Tkiaoibw oflalaa. lost on ths Bight when IVoj wsfl taken. 
b3 



111 carve our passage through the heedless foe, 

And clear thy road, with many a deadly bbw." 

His whispering accents then the youth reprcst, 

And pierced proud R^iamnes through his panting breast; 

Stretch'd at his case, th' incautious king reposed, 

Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed ; 

To Tumus dear, a prophet and a prince. 

His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 

But he, who thus foretold the fate of all. 

Could not avert his own untimely falL 

Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell. 

And three unhappy davcs the carnage sweD : 

The charioteer along his courser's mdes 

Ezpves, the steel his severed neck divides ; 

And, last, his lord is numbcr'd with the dead. 

Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 

From the swollen veins the blackening torrents pour, 

StainM is the couch and earth \^-ith clotting gore. 

Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 

And gay Scrranus, fiUM with youthful fire ; 

Half the long night in ch^ish games was past, 

LuUM by the potent grape, he dupt at last ; 

Ah ! happier far, had he the mom surveyed. 

And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in deep. 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls. 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls ; 
Insatiate rtill, through teeming herds he roams. 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less tlic otlier's deadly vengeance came. 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
Tet wakeful Rhssus sees the threatening steel , 
His coward breast behind a jar ho hides. 
And, vainly, in the weak defence ccHifides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
llie recking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow. 
The feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now, where Messapus dwelt they bend their way. 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined behold each grazing stccni, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed ; 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm : 
" Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is past. 
Full fees enough, to-night, have breathed their last ; 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn. 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising mom." 

What silver arms, with various arts emboss'd. 
What bowlif and mantles, in confusion toss'd. 
They leave regardless ! yet, one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes* coursers felt, 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt : 
This from the pallid rorse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wear?, 
Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bcorv , 
Then from the tenia their caulioud steps they ben«l« 
To seek tlie vale, where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
To Tunius' camp pursue their destined coiirso : 



14 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Wlule the slow f<»t their tardy march delay, 

The ki)i;.'lit.4, impatient, spur alonjn the way : 

Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volnccns led, 

To Tiirnus, with their numter^s ^iromise sped : 

Now, ituy approach tlie trench, and view the wmllf, 

When, on the left, a light reflection falli*; 

The phinderM helmet, tlirough the waning nighl, 

Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright ] 

Volscenit, with question loud, the pair alarms— 

'* Stand, stragglers ! atami ! why early thui in armi? 

From whence ? to whom 7** He meets with no reply; 

Tnistting the covert of the night, they fly ; 

The thickct^H depth, with hurried pace, they tread, 

While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

WitJi brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
Dreary and dark a[>pears the sylvan scene ; 
Euryalus lus heavy spoils impede, 
The boughs and winding turns his stops mislead ; 
But Nisus scours along the forest^s maze. 
To where Latinus* steeds, in safety graze, 
Then backward o*er the plain his eyes extend. 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
** O Gotl ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft. 
In what impending perils art thou left !^* 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
Tiunultuous voices swell the passing breeze; 
The war-cry rises, thundenng hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground ; 
Again he turns— of footsteps hears the noise, 
The sound elates — tlie sight his hope destroys ; 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround. 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? 
Ah ! must he rush, his comrade^s fate to i^are ! 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay. 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ! 
His hfe a votive rans<Mn nobly give. 
Or die with him for whom lie wish^ff to live ! 
Poising with strength las lifted lance on high. 
On Lima's orb he cast his phrenued eye : 
** Goddo-ss serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky ! whose beams are seen afar ; 
By night. Heaven owns thy sway, by day, the groive, 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase ; 
Sfiocd, speed my dart to pierce jron vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
Tliron;;h parted shades the hurtling weapon sung ; 
The tliirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
TransflxM his heart, and stretch'd him on the day : 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop, in wild amaze. 
Unconscious wnence the death, with horror gaze ; 
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven ; 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes, 
Veii'd by the niglrt, secure the Trojan lies. 
Burning with wrath, he viow'd his soldiers fall ; 
*' Thoti youth accurst ! thy life shall pay for aU." 
Quiisa from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
And raguig, on the boy defenceless flew. 



NUnis no more the blackening shade ooooeak. 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his kyve mweauM ; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise. 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies: 
** Me, me, — your vengeance buri on roe akme. 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own; 
Ye starry Spheres ! thou conscious Heaven attest! 
He couki noMU— durst not — k)! the guile confcst! 
An, all was mine — his eariy fate suspend. 
He only loved too well his hapless friend ; 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs! frtxn him jrour rage remofn 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
Ho pray'd in vain, the daric assa8sin'*8 sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
Lowly to earth inclines his pluroe-dad crest. 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the sir, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower. 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head. 
And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide. 
Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks, amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's g^iost; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe, 
Rage nerves his arm. Fate gleams in eveiy bbw; 
In vain, beneath unnumber'd wounds be bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
In viewless circles whecl'd his falcluon flics. 
Nor quits the Hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
Hie tyrant's soul fled groaning through die wocbhL 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved, 
"Dyingf revenged the fate of him he foved ; 
Then on his bosom, sought his wonted place. 
And death was heavenly in his friend's endiraee. 

Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim. 
Wafted on Timers broad pinion, jrours is fame ! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire ; 
No future day shall see your nan>es expire ; 
While stands the Capitol, immorta) dome ! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their Empress, Rome 

TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES. 
When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to gk»w, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge. 

Which rolls the tide of human woe 7 
The hope of praise, the dread of Lhame, 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame, 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But, if affection gently thriOa 

The soul, by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal iOs, 

In love can soothe the aching breast - 
If thus, thou comest in gentle guise. 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaves^ 
What heart, unfeeling, would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods hare tiv««^ 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



16 



But, MTcr from thy golden ix>w 

KUy I beneath the shaft expire, 
Whose creeping venoin, sure aod dow, 

Amkea an aU-consumin^ ftre ; 
Te ndm^ douhu ! ye jediousfean! 

With others wage eternal war ; 
Repeotaace ! soarce of future tean, 

From me be ever distant far. 

May DO Astrtcting thoughts destroj 

The holy cahn oi sacred love ! 
May an the hours he wing*d with joy^ 

Wlbcfa hover faithful hearts shore ! 
Fur VemiB ! on thy myrtle shrine, 

May I with some fond lover u^ ! 
Whoie heart may mingle pure with ndine, 

With me to Uve, with me to die. 

My native soil ! heloved hefbre. 

Now dearer, as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er maj I quit thy rocky shore, 

A ha{>le8s, banish'd wretch to roam ; 
ThiB Tcry day, this very hour. 

Hay I rengn this fleeting l»eath. 
Nor qiat my sUent, humble hower— 

A doom, to me, far worse than death. 

HaTe I not beard the exile's sigh. 

And leeo the exile's silent tear 7 
Hirough di^ant climes condemn'd to fly, 

A peoiive, weary wanderer here : 
Ah! hapless dame ! > no sire bewaib, 

No fiiead thy wretched fate deplores, 
No Idodred vmce with rapture hidls 

Thy steps, within a stranger's doors. 

Periih the Bend ! irhtme iron hea^t. 

To £ur afiection's truth unknown, 
Bidf her he fcmdly loved depart, 

Ui^ntied, hdplesa, and alone ; 
^^ ne^er unlodu, with silver Aey, * 

The milder treasures of his soul ; 
Hay such a friend be far from me, 

Aod Ocean's storms between us roQ ! 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



^HGHTS SUGGESTED BT A COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION.' 

Bi«B m die midst, surrounded by his peers, 
"Asin?! his ample front subHme uprears ; 
'w^ on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
^^ Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod ; 



J Nedsa. who sreoinp«]iiad Jasun to Corinth, wss deserted 
^ fat the d«nf hter of Creoa. kinc of that citr. The Chorus 
""ivhieh this is uken, here addrets Medea; thongh a coo- 
^'■nUe libertr is uken with the oriffinal, by expandinff the 
***• u aho in some other parts of the translation. 

.'Ths original is " lLa0apiv Awtt^am KXAia ^paSh :" 
"^^ ** DtsckMinir the brickt key of the mind." 

' lb iciection b here intended Afsin St the person meotiooed 
j^'vihs same cf Masnos. He u ma«lj repieeented ss per- 
iQ4ir as ansTCHdable function of his olBee: indeed such an 
'kapc eoold only leeoil opon myself; as that irentleman is 
*>*M orach dbtinicuiehed by his eloquenoe, and the diffnilled 
with which he Alls his ntoation, as bs wss, ki ha 
dayi^ for wit aad eoaviviafity 



As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
I£s voice, in thtmder, shakes the sotmding dome, 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fbds, 
Unskill'd to plod m roathematic rules. 

Happy the youth ! in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little vereed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What ! though he knows not how his fathers bled. 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead ; 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance. 
Or Heniy trampled (m the crest of France ; 
Thotigh, marv'ling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made. 
While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid ; 
Of Grecian dramas vaimts the deathless feme. 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth, whose scientific pate. 
Class-honours, medals, feUowsnips, await ; 
Or even, peihaps, the declamation prize. 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But, k) ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope : 
Not that our Heads much eloquence require, 
Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try, by speaking, to convince : 
Be other orators of pleasing proud. 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd ; 
Omt gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan ; 
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen. 
The slightest motion woiild displease the Dean ; 
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man, who hopes t' obtain the promised cup« 
Must m one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word. 
No matter what, so it can not be heard— 
Hiin let him hurry on, nor think to rest ! 
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best * 
Who utters most within the bhortest space, 
May safely hope to win the wordy nu:e. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where, on Cam's sedgy banks, supine they Ke, 
Unknown, unhonour'd live, — unwept for, die ; 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls. 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls ; 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise. 
All modem arts affecting to despise ; 
Tet prizing Bentley's, Bruwck's, * or PoKSOV s* 

note. 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote , 
Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious ar their tale. 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel. 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power. 
Whether 't is Pitt or P — tty rule* the hour: * 



.> 



1 Celebrated critics. _ . ^. „ ^ 
8 The present Greek professor at Trinitw Colleffe, Cam- 
bridfe ; a man whose powers of mind and wr'ttmcs mav pei- 
haps justify dieir preference. U .„.•-. -1 

3 Biaee this wss written. Lord H.K rhas'isihisptaw 



16 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To Um, with tappGant nmlet, thej bend the head, 

While distant nutree to thdr eyes are spread ; 

But riiould a storm o*erwhebn him with disgrace^ 

They 'd fly to seek the next who BUM his place. 

Such are the men who learning's treasures guard, 

Such IS their practioe, such is their reward ; 

rius much, at least, we may presume to say— 

The premium canH exceed the prio^ they pay. 

l806« 



TO THE EARL OP ♦ ♦ ♦. 



••to 
; at eari eooufis oe abscsdal imafo.*' 

VALERIUS FLACCU& 



FuEVD of my youth ! when young we roved. 
Like striplings mutually beloved. 

With Friendship's purest glow ; 
The bliss which wmgM those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom ^wera 

On mortals here below. 

The recoQecti<Hi seems, alone, 
Dearer than all the joys I *?e known. 

When distant far from you ; 
Though pain, \ is still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again. 

And sigh again, adieu ! 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be ei^joy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever ; 
The measure of our youth is fuD, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull. 

And we may meet — ah ! never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams, which from one fbiinfain rise, 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How coon, diverging from their source. 
Each murmuring s^ks anothei course, 

Till mingled b the soain. 

Our vital streams of weal or wnc. 
Though near, alas ! <fistinctly (k>w, 

Nor mingle as before ; 
Now swift or slow, now black or dear, 
Tin death's unfathom'd gulf appear. 

And both sh^ quit the shore. 

Our souls, my Friend ! which oooe supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now fk>w in different channels; 
IXsdaining humbler rural sports, 
>Ti8 yours to mix in polish'd courts. 

And shine in Fashkm's annals. 

"T is mine to waste on Ix>ve my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme. 

Without the aid of Reason; 
fW Bume and Reason (critics know it) 
llav» quitted every amorous poet. 

Nor lefl a thought to seize on. 



and sabseqneotly (I had alaKMtiaid eontequemUp) tbehonsar 
ii ivpfeMoting the Univenity ; a fact so glarisf roqniret no 



Pom- Littls! sweet, m ekxiious bud. 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard. 

That he, who sang before aD ; 
He, who the love of Love expanded, 
Ky dire reviewers should be branded. 

As void of wit and moraL' 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine. 
Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot ; 
Thy soothing Uiys may stUl be read. 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 

And critics are forgot. 

Still, I must jrield thbse worthies ment, 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit. 

Bad thymes, and those who wiite 
And though myself may be the next 
By critic sarcasm to be vcxt, 

I really will not fight them ; * 

Perhaps they would do quite as well. 
To break the niddy-sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner ; 
He n^o ofiends at pert nineteen. 
Ere thirty, may become, I ween, 

A very hardenM smner. 



Now 



-, I must return to you. 



And sure apobgies arc due ; 

Accept then my concession ; 

In truth, dear , in fancy's flight, 

I soar along from lefl to right ; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 't would be your fate 
To add one star to royal state ; 

May regal smiles attend you ; 
And should a noble Monarch reign, 
Tou will not seek his smiles in vain. 

If worth can recommend you. 

Tet, since in danger courts abound. 
Where specious rivals glitter round, 

From snares may saints preserve you; 
And grant your love or friendship ne'a- 
FVom any claim a kindred care. 

But those who best deserve you. 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From Truth's secure unerring way ; 

May no delights decoy ; 
O'er roses may your footsteps move. 
Tour smiles be ever smiles of love. 

Your tears be tears of joy. 

Oh! if you wish that happiness 

Tour coming days and years may blois. 

And virtues crown your brow ; 
Be still, as you wero wont to be. 
Spotless as you 've been known to me. 

Be, stiU, as you are now. 

1 These Stansas vrere written toon after the appeara 
a severe critique in a Northero review, on a new pobfi 
of the British Anaereon. 

8 A Bard (borreaco referona) defied hts reviewer to i 
oombat. K this example become* prevalent, oar peri 
censori muit be dipped in the river Btyz, for what ei 
secure them from the numerous host of their eoraced 
aotal 



HOURS OP IDLENESS. 



17 



trifling shMPe of praise, 
Tocheer mf last deduung days, 

To me were doubly dear; 
Whilst UMsmg your bdored name, 
Vi wne at once a Poefa &me, 

To prove ^ Prophftt hen. 

GRANTA, A MEDLET. 



ityttati Xoyj^€un ^a^<n mat ravra Kpantvaig, 

Oi! couid Lb Saok's* demon's gift 

Bereafiied at my desire, 
Tbm^Bf trembling form he M lift. 

To pbce it on St. Mary's spu^ 

TIkd would, QorooTd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic mmates full display ; 
Fdkws who dream on lawn, or stalls, 

ThA price of Tenal votes to pay. 

T1» wodld I view each rival wight, 
P— tty and P — bn — st — n survey ; 

^caariM there with all their might, 
Against the next elective day. 

U\ candidates and voters lie, 

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number ! 
A race renowuM for piety, 

Whose conscience wonH disturb their slumber. 
"*'' H — J inde^, may not demur, 

Fe&ows are sage, reflecting men 1 
"tj hum preferment ca occur 

fitd ray seldom, — now and then. 

T^luKw the Chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings in disposal; 
^ hopes that one may be his lot. 

And, tbereiure, smiles on his proposaL 

Kov, fi-om the soporific scene 

m turn mine ey^ as night grows later, 
Td view, unheeded and unseen. 

The itudioin sons of Alma Mater. 

^^Kre, in ^lartments small and damp, 

lite candidate for college prizes 
ob poring by the midmght hunp. 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

He, lordj, well deserves to gain them, 
With all the honours of his college, 

Who, striving hardly to obtain them. 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge ; 

Who sacrifices homv of rest. 

To scan, precisely, metres Attic, 

Or a|[itatc8 his anxious breast 

Id solving problems matbematic ; 

Who reads false quantities m Sele,* 
Or puzzles o*er the deep triangle, 

litpmtd of many a wholesome meal, 

hi barbarooa Latin' doom'd to wrangle ; 

IW Diable BoHeox of Le Soft, where Acmodeua, the 

<■■ pl a c e s Don Cleofts on an elevated sitnation, and on- 

)lhs hoows for bis inspection. 

Us's pabJieatioa on Greek metres daplaTi eoosiderable 

I Sid inceoojtv. bat. as nif bt be ezpeeied in so difficult 

fk. is Boc remarkable for aceorao 

y Lstio of the seho(^ is of the CS1I4IM spedsf , end not 

8 



Renouncing every pleanng page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the lettered sage 

The square of the hypoChemise.' 
Still, harmless are these occupations. 

That hurt none biit the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreations. 

Which bring together the imprudent ; 

Whose daring revels shock the sight. 
When vice and infamy combine. 

When drunkenness and dice unite. 

And every sense is sieepM in wme. 

Not so the methodistic crew. 

Who plans of reformatiiai lay : 
In btunble attitude they sue. 

And for the sins of others pray. 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit. 

Their exultation in their tiial. 
Detracts roost largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

Tis mom, — fi-om these I turn my sight: 
What scene is this which meets the eye 7 

A numerous crowd, array'd in white, * 
Across the green in numbers lly. 

Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell ; 

'T is hushM : What sounds arc these I hear f 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the listenmg car. 

To this is joinM the sacred song. 

The royal minstrers hallowed strain ; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Our choir would scarcely be excused. 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 

All mercy, now, must be refused, 

To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him. 
To us his psalms had ne*cf descended, 

In furious mood he would bare torn 'enu 
The luckless Israelites, when taken. 

By some inhuman tyrant's order. 
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken. 

On Babylonian river's border. 

Oh ! had they sung in notes like these. 

Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
They might have set their hearts at ease— 

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 

But, if I scribble longer now. 

The deuce a soul will stay to read ; 

My pen is blunt, my ink is low,' 
'T is ahnost time to stop indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Grarta's spires, 

No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
No more thy theme my Muse inspires, 

The reader's tired, and so am I. 

1906 



1 The discovery of Pythacoras, that the square of ibe 
hjrpothenuae is equal to the squares of the other two skbs of 
a riffat-anffled triangle. 

8 On a Saint dar, the Undents wsar snrpUess in chaaa* 



18 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LACmN Y GAIR. 



TO ROMANCE. 



Laekiny Oair, or, aa it u pronounced miheEne, i«c* na 
Garr, towers proudlr pre-eminent in the JNorthern Migft- 
landa,near InvorcauU. One of our modem tounrteinen- 
tions It as the highest mountain, perhara. ui Great Britam ; 
be this aa it may, it is certainlr one of the moat sublime 
and picturewiue amongat our " Caledoman . A.lpe. Its ap- 
pearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the aeat of 
eternal snowa: near Lachin y Gair I apont apnoe or the 
early part of my life, the recollection of which baa given 
birth to the following Stanzaa. 

AwAT, ye gay landacapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rore ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white stmunits though elements war, 
Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
tains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd. 

My cap was the boimet, my cloak was the plaid ;' 
On chiefluns long pcrish'd my memory {Kmdcr'd, 

As duly I strode through the pine-coveHd glade ; 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
For Fancy was cheerM by traditional story 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

<t Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale 7" 
Surdy the soul of the hero rejoices. 

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: 
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers. 

Winter presides in his coU icy car; 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my iathers— 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr: 

<* lU-starr'd, * though brave, did no vinons foreboding 

Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?" 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, * 

Victory crown'd not your &11 with applause ; 
t<kill were you happy, in death's eariy shunber 

You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar,' 
The Pibroch * rp soimds to the piper's loud ntunbcr 

Your deods on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have roli'd on. Loch na Garr, since I left you ; 

Years must elapse ere I tread you agun ; 
Nature of verdin« and flowers has bereft you. 

Yet, still, are you dearer than ADnon's plain : 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the moimtains a&r ; 
Oh! for the crags that are wiki and tnajestic. 

The steep-firowiung glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 



1 Thia word ia erroneously pronounced plod ; the proper 
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) ia ahown by the 
erthography. 

S 1 allude here to my maternal ancosloia, *' tho Gordona,'* 
many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charlea, 
better known by the name of the Pretender. Thia branch waa 
nearly allied by blood, aa well aa attachment, to the Stoworta. 
George, the aecond Earl of Huntley, married the Princesa 
Annabella Slewart, daughter of James the First of Bcotland ; 
by her he left four aona : the third, Bir William Gordon, I 
have the honour to ckim aa one of my progenitora. 

3 Whether any periahed in the battle of Culloden I am not 
certain ; but aa many fell in the iasnirection, I have used the 
same of the principal action, " pars pro toto.** 

4 A tract of the Highlands ao railed ; there is also a Caatle 
sif Braemar. 

ftTbs Bagpipe. 



PAREirr of golden dreams, Roma 

Auspicious queen of childish j 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance. 

Thy votive train of girls and b 
At length, in spells no longer boun< 

1 break the fetters of my yout 
No more I tread thy mystic round, 

J^t leave thy realms for those 

And yet, 'tis hard to quit the dreai 

Which haunt the unsuspicioui 
Where every nymph a goddess sec 

Whose eyes through rays imi 
Wlulo Fancy holds her boundless 

And all assume a varied hue, 
When virgins seem no longer vaii 

And even woman's smiles are 

And must we own thee but a nam 
> And from thy hall of clouds d* 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A Pylades ' in every friend? 
But leave, at once, thy realms of : 

To mingling bands of fahry el 
Confess that woman's false as fa 

And fiiends have feelings fbr- 

With shame, I own I 've felt thy s* 

Repentant, now thy reign is < 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions c 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkling ey< 

And think that eye to Truth 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 

And melt beneath a wanton'i 

Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 
Far from thy motley court I 

Where Affectation holds her sea 
And sickly Sensibility; 

Whose silly tears can never flo\^ 
For any pangs excepting tK 

Who turns aside from real woe. 
To steep in dew thy gaudy sli 

Now join wUh sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, arraj 
Who heaves wiili thee her siruph 

Whose breast for every bo8< 
And call thy sylvan female quire, 

To mourn a swain for ever 8 
Who once could glow with equal 

But bends not now before th 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready 

On all occasions, swiftly flov 
Whose bosoms heave with finci* 

With fancied tlamea and phr 
flay, will you mourn my absent r 

Apostate from your gentle ti 
An infant Ban!, at least, ujay clai 

From you a aympalhetic stn 



1 It h tartly nfCPMTj to add, Ihxt Pylidw • 
Orwtcs, aod » partwr in aae of ttioM frteD-UlJip 
Aehillfli and Patrocle«, N;»ui and Euryitui. Da 
been bsoded down to po«ierity as wmarkabb ii 
wbicb, In all probability, never existed, b«'yood 
poelf tbs psfc of a btftohan, or nwdem noreliaU 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



19 



A(fiea! fend race, a kmg a£ea ! 

The hoar of fate is holering nigh; 
Even DOW the gulf appears in view, 

Where unlamented you nnist lie : 
OUJTioo's hlnckpnmg lake is seen 

CoaTuleed by galos you cannot weather, 
Where jou, and eke your gentle queen, 

AUs ! must perish altogether. 



ELECT ON NEWSTEAD ABBET.< 



Iti^ roiee of yean that are gone! thmj roll before me 
•Adikirdced*. OSSIAN. 



NiviTtAD ! &at fiJling, once resplendent dome ! 

RdjlKo'sdmne! repentant Hc2TmT*s * pride! 
OTwvnora, motdcs, and dames the doister'd tomb, 

Wbow petmre shades around thy ruin) ^ide : 

Hail to thy pile ! more honourM in thy faD, 
Than modem mansions in their pillar'd state ; 

IVoodly roijestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
Sooniin^ de6ance on the blast of &te. 

NoBukkd ser6y ' obedient to their lord, 
Ib pm array, the crimson cross^ demand : 

Or 117 asKmble round the festive board. 
Their dueTs retainers, an immortal band. 

Else misfat inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
Retrace their pr o gress, through the lapse of tmie ; 

Maiibng each ardent youth, ordainM to die, 
A rotire fHlgrim, in Judea's dime. 

6«Do( frooi thee, dark pile! departs the Chie^ 

Hi* filial reabn in other regions lay ; 
h ibee, the wounded conscience courts relief^ 

Ketviog firoro the garish blaze of day. 

1 a, m thjr {gloomy cells and shades profound, 
The mook abjured a worid he ne'er could view; 

Orbiood-stainM Guilt repenting solace found, 
Or Binocence from stem Oppression flew. 

^BODuth bade thee from that wild arise, 
*»h«e Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl; 

^ &ipentitk>n's crimes, of various dyes, 
°M|fat ibeher in the priest's protecting oowL 

'^^ now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
The humid pah of life>eztinguish'd day, 

"^ed &me the sacred lathers grew, 
^^ raised their pious vcnces, but to pray. 

'^^ DOW the bats their wavering wings extend, 
Soon as the gloanung * spreads her waning shade. 

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
Ormatin orisons to Mary* paid. 

J Ai eet pfwa on this soloeet is printed in the becinoiof . 

!"*athor bad orinnaDy no inteotioo of kisertiiif the folk>w- 

^' it ii oow added at the partieiilar request of some friends. 
S B«r7 ri. fooDded Newstead soon aAer the murder of 

y sss a Becket. 

'Tbii word is used bj Walter Scott, in hb poem. "The 

*'dd Hnatsman,*' as sjmoiqmioos with Vassal. 

i Tke R^ Cutm was the badice of the Crusaders. 

<As "GioajDins." the Scottish woni for Twilifht. b far 
■>* poMicai. and has been lecoromeoded by man/ eminent 
■■arf oMn, partkuiariy Dr. Moore, in bis Letters to Burnt, 
'have ventDied to use it on aeeoont of its harmonf. 

< Tbs Priory WM dsdiealad to the Virgki 



Tears roll on years— to ages, ages yiekl— 

Abbots to abbots in a line succeed. 
Religion's charter their protecting shield. 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls, 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 

Another Heivrt * the kind gift recalls. 
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer. 
He drives them exiles from their blest abode^ 

To roam a dreary world, in deep despair. 
No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. 

Hark ! how the hall, resounding to the strain, 

Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 

High-crested banners, wave thy walls within. 
Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 

The mirth offcasts, the dang of bumish'd 
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, 

Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
An abbey once, a regal fortress ' now, 

Encirded by insulting rebel powers ; 
War's dread machines o'crhang thy threatening brow 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
Ah I vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege. 

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomcs the brave; 
His thronging foes oppress the fiuthfiil liege. 

Rebellion's recking standards o'er him wave. 
Not unavenged, the raging baron yields. 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; 
Unconquer'd still his fiilchion there he wields. 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 

Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
Self-gather'd kiurels on a self-sought grave ; 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 

Trembbng she snatch'd him ' from the imequal Btrifo| 

In other fields the torrent to repel. 
For nobler combats here reserved his life, 

To lead the band where godlike Falklavd^ feB. 

From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given. 

While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 
Far diflerent inceiwe now ascends to heaven — 

Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 
There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse. 

Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horae, 

Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspready 
Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould ; 

From ruflian fangs escape not e'en the dead. 
Raked from repose, in search of buried gold. 



1 At the dissolution of the Monasifrie*. Henry VIII. 
stowed Nevntead Abbey on Sir John Ryron. 

3 NewBiead sustained a considorablo siege in the war 
tween Charles I. and his Parlianiimt. 

3 Lord Byron and his brother Hir William held high e< 
mands in the royal arm) ; the former wa* General ia Chief in 
Ireland, Lieutenant of ihe Tower, and Governor to James 
Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. The latter 
had a principal share in many actions, /^ids Clareodoa. 
Hnnte, ete. , , , 

4 Lucius Gary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most aeeosa- 
plbhed Dsn of his age. was killed at the battle of Newbeny. 
eharginc in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of eavaliv 



9C 



BYRON'S WORKS 



HuahM u die harp, mutninf the warlike lyre, 
Tlie minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 

No more he strikes the qiuvering chords with 6ro, 
Or nngi the glories of the martial wreath. 

At leagtfa, the sated murderers, gorged with prey, 
lUtirei thi clamour of the fight is o*er; 

Silence tfun resumes her awful sway. 
And sable Horror guards the massy door. 

Here Desolation holds her dreary court ; 

WhiU satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
Shriddng their dirge, iU-omen'd birds resort 

To flit their vigils in the hoary lane. 

Soon a new mom*s restoring beams dispel 
Hm ckmds of anarchy from Britain's sides ; 

Th« fierce usurper seeks his native heU, 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With sUmns she welcomes his expiring groans, 
Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath ; 

Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones, 
Loathing > the ofi^ering of so dark a death. 

The legal Ruler* now resumes the hehn, 
He guides through gentle seas the prow of state : 

Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm. 
And heab the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. 

Hie gloomy tenants, Newsteod, of thy cells, 

Howling resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Ei^joy'd, from absence, with enraptured zesL 

Vassals within thy hospitable pale, 
Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float. 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 

And, hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 

Beneath their coursers' hoofii the valleys shake : 
What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase ! 

The ^ring stag seeks refuge in the lake, 
Endting shouts announce the finish'd race. 

Ah! happy days! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our friain forefathers knew: 
No splendid vices glitter'd to alhire— 

Thdr joys were many, as their cares were few. 

FVom these descending, sons to sires succeed, 
Tuao steals along, and Death uproars his dart; 

Another chief impels the foaming steed. 
Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 

Thy 3rawning arch betokens slow decay ; 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his swmy. 

Deserted now, ho scans tfiy gray-worn to wers 
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages slee]^— 



1 This is a historical fiict A viohot tempeit eeeorred im- 
mediately ■ubsequent to the death, or interment of Cromwell, 
which occaMoned many disputes between his partisans and 
the ravalicrs ; both interpreted the circuoiitanoe into divine 
mterpoaitiou, but whether as approbation or eondemaatioD, 
we leave to the caauisli of that age to decide. I have made 
SMeh use of the ooourenee as suited the sohjeet of my poem. 

tChadisll. 



Thy ctoisters, pervious to the wintry showers— 
These, these he views, and views them but to v 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret, 
Cherish'd afiection only bids them flow ; 

Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget. 
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 

Yet, he prefers thee to the ^Ided domes, 
0^ gewgaw grottos of the vainly great ; 

Yet bngers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs. 
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the i%ill of &te. 

Haply thy sim emerging yet may shine, 
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 

Hours ^lendid as the past may still be thine, 
And bless thy future as thy former day. 



TO E. N. L. ESQ. 



Nil ego contulerim jucoodo sanua amico. 

IIOR. S 

Dear L , in this sequester'd pcene, 

While all around in slumber lie. 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye : 
Thus, if amidst the gathering storm, 
While clouds the dorkenM noon dt-fcnrro. 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
And bids the war of tempests cca^. 
Ah ! though the presteut brings but pain, 
I think those days nwy come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
Some lurking envious fear intrude. 
To check my bosom's fondest thought. 

And interrupt the golden dream ; 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme ; 
Although we ne'er again can trace. 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore. 
Nor, through the groves of Ida, chase 

Our raptured visions as before ; 
Though Youth has flown on rosy piniok, 
And Manhood claims his stem domini(»i. 
Age will not every hope destroy, 
But jrield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wmg 
Will shed around some dews of spring ; 
But, if his scythe must svi-ecp the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowent, 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell. 
And hearts with eariy rapture swell ; 
If frowning Age, vritli cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh. 
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan. 
And bids mo feel for self alone ; 
Oh ! may my bosom never learn. 

To sooth its wonted heedless flow, 
StiB, still, despise the censor stem, 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 
Yes^ as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yet delay% 



HOURS OP IDLENESS 



SI 



Sd nty I rove untatof'd, wild, 
Anderen in age at heaxt a child. 

Tkoj^ now on airy ▼inoDS borne, 
ToTou n^ loul is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn. 
And aO mj ibrmer joys are tame. 
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue, 
Your frowns are gone, my sorrow's o^er ; 
Bt every blias my childhood knew, 

initlikik opon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 

And caret their sullm roar encloee, 
Weheed no more the wintry blast. 

When luQM by zephyr to repose. 
Fi£ often has my infant Muse 

Actiffied to love her languid lyre ; 
But now, without a theme to choose. 

The strains in suJen sighs expire ; 
Mt youthfui nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 

E — is a wife, and C a mother, 

AadCardina sighs alone, 

And Mary 's given to another ; 
And Cora*8 eye, which ndl*d on me, 

Cu now no more my love recal ; 
Intimh, dear L , 't was time to flee. 

For Cora's eye vrUl shine on alL 
And though the sun, with gonial rays. 
Hit bevm alike to all displays, 
And ereiy lady's eye 's a sim, 
Theie last diould be confined to one. 
1^ loiil't meridian don't become her 
^^hoie son displays a general nomner. 
'HnB iiunt is every former flame, 
And Pasnon's setfts now a name : 
As, when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved thidr li^it, 
Aod bade them bum with fiercer glow, 

Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
T^ has it been with passion's fires. 

As many a boy and girl remembers, 
^e aQ the Cbrce of love expires, 

Extingmsh'd with the dying embers. 

^ ROW, dear L , 't is midmght's noon, 
Aod clouds obscure die watery moon, 
Whoae bcanties I shall not rehearse^ 
I^CKribed in every atnpling's Terse ; 
^« why ihoald I the piath go o'er, 
^hich every bard has trod befiMre? 
fc^ ere yon silver lamp of night 

Httthrioe peribnn'd her steted round, 
Hu thrice reduced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
Itnot that we, my gentle fiiend, 
Shall see her roQing oibit wend 
Abofc the dear-loml peaceful seat 
^^^ once contain'd our youth's retreat; 
And then, with tfiose our childhood knew, 
^e1! mingle with the festive erew ; 
^e many a tale of former day 
Shan wing the laughing hours away; 
And all the flow of sod shall pour 
^ lacred intellectual shower, 
.Nor cease, tiQ Luna's waning bom 
Scuce giinmers dvoogh the nnrt of Mom. 



TO . 

Oh ! had my fate been jom'd with thine, 
As once this pledge appeaPd a token. 

These follies had not then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been brokea* 

To thee these eariy faults I owe, 
To thee, the Mrise and old reproving ; 

They know mysins, but do not know 
'T was thine to break the bonds of kmng. 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure. 
And all its rising fires could smother ; 

But now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestow'd by thee up<Hi another. 

Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
And spoil the blisses that await him ; 

Tet, let my rival smile in joy, 
For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

Ah I since thy angel form is gone. 
My heart no more can rest with any ; 

But what it sought in theo alone, 
Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

Then (are thee well, deceitfiil maid, 
'T were vain and fiuitless to regret thee ; 

Nor hope nor memory yield their aid, 
But pride may teach me to forget thee. 

Yet all this giddy waste of years, 
Tliis tiresome round of palling pleasures. 

These varied loves, these matron's fears, 
These thoughdess strains to passion's 

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd ; 

This cheek, now pale from early riot. 
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd. 

But bloum'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Tes, once the rural scene was sweet. 
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; 

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit. 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys ; 

To think would drive my soul to madness 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Tet, even in these a thought will steal. 
In spite of every vain endeavour ; 

And fiends might pity what I feel. 
To know that thou art lost for ever. 



STANZAa 
I WOULD I were a careless child. 

Still dwelling in my highland cave. 
Or roaming through the dusky wikl. 

Or bounding o'er the dark-blue wave. 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon * pride 

Accords not with the frce^ucm soul. 
Which k)ves the mountiun's craggy side. 

And seeks the rocks where billows roU. 

Fortune! take back these cultured lands, 
Take back this name of splendid sound ! 

I hate the touch of servile hands — 
I hate the slaves that cringe around: 



1 Saisenah, or Saxon, aGaelic word signifirmf either Tjo» 
laadtfrEnfUsh. 



£2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Place roe along the rocks I love, 
Which Bound to ocean*B wildest roar ; 

I ask but tliiii — again to rove 
Through scenes jny youth hath known before. 

Few are my years, ani yet I feel 

The worid was nc^er desi^nM for me ; 
Ah ! why do d.irk^ning shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be 7 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss ; 
TVuth ! wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 

I kmsd— but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my earlj' friends are fled ; 
How chcerics:* feels the heart alone 

When all its former hopes are dead ! 
Though gay conii>anioDs o'er tlie bowl 

Dispel awliile the sense of ill, 
Though Pleasure stirs Uie maddening soul. 

The heart — the heart is lonely stilL 

How dull to hear the voice of lliose 

Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor (bes. 

Associates of tlie festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few. 

In years and feelings still the same. 
And I will tly the midnight crew. 

Where boistVous Joy is but a name. 

And Woman ! lovely Woman, thou. 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bos(Hn now. 

When o*en tliy smiles begin to pall ! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

THis busy scene of s;>lc-ndid woe. 
To make that calm couienlment mine 

Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. 

Fain would I fly the haunts of men^ 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires tlie sullen glen. 

Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, 

To flee away and be at resL ' 

^» 

LINES 

WkcrrEIf BENEATH \If ELM 15 THE CHURCHYARD 

OF HARROW 05 THE HILL. 

SEPT. 2, 1807. 

bpOT of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh. 
Swept by the l)reczc that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
With those who, scatter^ far, perchance deplore, 
Like me, the hapjyy scenes they knew before : 
Oh ! as I trace again thy w'mding hill. 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
T^ou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay. 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wrmt, my limbs recline, 
Itut ah' without the thoughts which then were nune : 

I PmIii Iv. v. a.—" And I said. Oh ! that I had winn like 
• dove, then wookl 1 fly away and bo at rest.'* Tha vem 
alao conttitiites a part of the most beautiful anthom in our 



How do thy branches, moanmg to the blast, 
Invite the bosom to recall the past ; 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
<*Take, while thou can^sl, a lingering last fdreweD*** 
When Fate shall chill at kngth this feverM breast, 
And cahn its cares and passions into rest, 
Oil have I thought *t would soothe my dying hour, 
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, 
To kiK>w some humbler grave, some narrow ceQ, 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell : 
With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to di»- 
And here it linger*d, here my heart might lie ; 
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose, 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose : 
For ever stretchM beneath this mantling shade, 
Prest by the turf where once my childhood play'd, 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
MixM with the earth o*er which my footsteps mofed; 
Blest by the tongues tliat charmM my youthful ear, 
MoumM by the few my soul acknowledged here, 
Deplored by those in early days allied, 
And unremembcrM by the workl beside. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 

An imitation of Macpherson'M Oman,^ 

Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells oo their !•• 
membrance tlirough the mist of time. In the twiE^ 
he recalls tlie sunny hours of mom. He lifVs hit ipeir 
with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did I raise tbi 
steel before my fatlicrs </' Past is tlie race of henw! 
but their fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride «■ 
the wings of the wind ! they hear the sound thrao^ 
the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their haU si 
clouds! Such is CaUnar. The gray stone marks lii 
narrow house. He looks down Crom eddying teinpeil% 
he rolls his form in the whiriwind ; and hoven on Ai 
blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to FlngiL 
His steps in the field were marked in blood ; Locfaliiif^ 
sons had fled before his angry spear : but mild was ihl 
eye of Cahnar ; sof\ was tlio flow of his yellow 1 
they streamed like the meteor of the night. No 
was the sigh of his soul ; his thoughts were given to 
friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of henMs! 
Equal were their swords in battle ; but fierce ww flit 
pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together ihqf 
dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochbn, Swaran bounded o'er the bhw mvnt* 
Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fmgal roused Ui 
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean ! Thar 
hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the ud 
of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the annies; 
but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. Ttf 
sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. TVf 
lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so ths 
host of Morven. To watch was the poet of Orla. Gal- 
mar stood by his side. Their spears were m their handi. 
Fingal called his chiefs. They stood aroimd. The king 
was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but stnaig ma 
the arm of the king. Age withered not his powen 



1 It may be nocewory to ulMervc, that the ktory, ibooik 
conniilcnilily vsrii>d in the catsttroplie, i« taken from " Nisai 
and Euryalni,*' of which episode a translation has Ixeoil 
ready fiveo. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



33 



Soas oTMofTen,*' said the hero, '^UHinorrow we meet 
e fxjc ; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin 7 
5 rests in the halls of Tura ; ho kno-svs not of our 
aiirig. \Vho will speed through Lochlin to the hero, 
d caU the chief to amis ? The path is by the swords 
foes, but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts 
war. Speak, ye chiefs ! who will arise ?** 
** Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed,*' said dark- 
ircd Orla, '* and nune alone. What is death to me 7 
OTC the sleep d die mighty, but litUe is the danger. 
he Eons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne 
uthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay 
e by the stream of Lubar.*' — " And shalt thou fall 
lone?*' said fair-haired Calmar. " Wilt thou leave thy 
iend afar. Chief of Oithona? not feeble is my arm in 
ighi. Could I sec thee die, and not lift ihe spear 7 No, 
Ma ! ours lias been the chase of the roebuck, and the 
Ekst of shells ; ours bo the path of danger : ours has 
been the cave of Oithcma ; ours be the narrow dwelling 
ao the banks of Lubar."—" Calmar !" said the chief of 
Oilhona, ** why should thy yellow locks be darkened 
io tlie dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father 
dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his boy : but 
the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in 
Morren. She listens to the steps of the hunter (ui tlie 
heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him 
Dot say, * Calmar is (alien by the steel of Lochlin ; he 
died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' 
Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora 7 Why 
should her TOtce ctirse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar 7 
Lire, Cadmar ! live to raise my stone of moss; live to 
rerenge mc in the blood of Lochlin ! Join the song of 
bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death 
Io Orla, from the Ycice U Caknar. My ghost shall smile 
oo the notes of praise." — "Orla!" said the son of 
Mora, ** coukl I raise the song of death to my firiend 7 
Could I give his fame to the winds 7 No ; my heart 
would speak in sighs ; &int and broken are the sounds 
of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. 
One cloud shall be ours on high ; tlie bards will mingle 
the names of Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are 
to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim 
twiidde« through the night The northern star points 
Ihe path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his 
lonely h'dl. Here the troops are mixed : they frown in 
rieep, their shields beneath their^heads. Their swords 
gieam, at difitancc, in heaps. Tlie fires are faint ; their 
embers fiil in smokn. All is hushed ; but the gale 
si^hs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes 
tliroush Uie 5iliimbering band. Half the journey is 
past, whoii Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the 
eye of Ori:i. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the 
ihade : hi* spear u raised on high. '* Why dost thou 
beni thy brow, Chief of Oithona?" snid fair-haired 
Calmar. *^ We are in the midst of foes. Is thi;* a time 
F* dHav ?" — "It is a time (or vengeance," saud Orla, 
of the elofwn y brow. " Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : socst 
tli-jo his •qw-ar? IH point is dim with the gore of my 
falhf r. I'hc lilood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but 
ph:ill I flinv him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall 
(.■«4 htdi wuiiiH ; my fame shall not soar on the blood 
of ebimber. Rise, Mathon ! rise ! the son of Connal calls; 
thy liie is hi< : rise to combat." Mathon starts from 
■lefip, hut did he rise alone 7 No : the gathering chiefs 
bnmd on the plain, ^fly, Cdinar, fly !" said dark- 



haired Orla : " Mathon is mine ; I shall die m joy ; but 
Lochlin crowds around ; fly through the shade of night." 
Orla turns ; the helm of Mathon is cleft ; hL<s shield 
falls from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls 
by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon Mes him f'Ul. 
His vrraih rises ; his weapon glitters on the bead of 
Orla ; but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes 
through the woiuid, and foams on the spear of Calmar. 
As roll the waves of Ocean on two mighty barks of the 
north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefi. As, 
breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of 
the north, so rise tlie chiefii of Morven on the scattered 
crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of 
Fingal. Ho strikes his shield : his sons throng around ; 
the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. 
Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The 
eagle n^ing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is 
the clang of death ! many arc the widows of Lochlin. 
Morven prevails in his strength. 

Mom glimmers on the hUls : no living foe is seen ; 
but the sleepers are many : grim they lie on Erin. The 
breeze of ocean liAs their locks : j'et they do not awake. 
The hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 
bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the 
dark hair of his friend. 'TIS Calmar — he lies on the 
bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce 
is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not ; but 
his eye is still a flame: it glares in death unclosed. 
His hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Calmar lives : ho 
lives, though low. " Rise," said the king, " rise, son ol 
Mora, 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar 
may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 

"Never more shall Calmar chase the doer of Morven 
with Orla;" said the hero, "what were the chase to 
me, alone 7 Who would share the spoils of battle witli 
Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! 
yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others io 
lightning ; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my swoid 
to bUie-cyed Mora : let it hang in my empty hall. It is 
not pure from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay 
me with my friend : raise the song when I am dark." 

They arc laid by tlie stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 

When S^varan was bound, our sails rose on the blue 
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The 
Bards raised the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds ! whose dark 
ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice 
rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla ; the browi chief of 
Oilhona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to tliy soul, 
Orla I thy fame will not jHirish. Nor thine, Calmar ! lovely 
wast thou, son of bhHveycd Mora ; but not hnnnless 
was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of 
Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy priiiirt, Calmar! 
it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name sliakcs 
on the echoes of Mor\'en. Then raise tliy ibiir locks, son 
of Mora ; spread thorn on the arch of the rainbow, ami 
smile thronr,h the tears of the storm." ' 



1 F fi-ar Lain*** late oditi<>n hn* rompltitrly o^-cHhrown Mvery 
hope Ihnt Mac|»henKm'* OMion misht prove the Tranjilntion of 
a perieii of Pornw, compkto in jhrmivlvos ; but. whili- ihe im 
posture if! diiTOvtrwl, Uie merit of the work remain* unilinputwl. 
thouxh not without fnultn. pnrticularlf. in ■otno ports, lurjjid and 
bomhamic diction.— The vritcnt humble imitution will be par- 
doned by the admirers of the original, w an attempt, nowevst 
inferior, which evinces an attachment fo their favourite author 



BYRON'S WORKS. 
CRITIQUE 

EXTHAC1XD FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. St, FOR JAKCAHT ISOS. 



1 Seria of Potirut, ori^nof oi 



The ^otsy of Lhii young Lord bdoop to Ihv dai 

Wtt do not recoUcct 10 hlire MKtn a quuilily of ven 
with M few dovijuioiu in citluir dlTuction from Ihj 



|IU,«ndcK 
of Ihli oHeni 






1 gel above or bulaw Iho level, Ihi 

nol^e ambor La p«cu]iu1y forwai 
nunwily. We hoio h in the ^tle-pagi 
vor; back of ths Tolume ; it fuUowi b 
fnvDunle pari of his Mt^lt. Much alrogi 
Ln The preface, and the paGDU are connect! 
wun mu guneral statemeat of hii case, by partkuli 
dales, lubttaniiBling ihe aga at nliu^h encb waj M-rillei 
Now, llie law upon Iho poinl of minority we hold to I 
perfeclljF clear. It ii a plea availalile onlj la (he di 
fcDdanl; no pbbtiff can oOer it aa a lupplementii 
(IDUnd of action. Thua, if any luit could b« broucl 
againit Lofd Byron, lor the purpoAO of compelling hii 
lo put into court a certain qunnlily of poetry, end 
jadgmenl ^^e^e given againit him, it is hi^ly probah 
Ihat an eiceplion would be taken wen ho lo delili 
tar poetry the codIeuI* of Ihk loliunc. To Ihii I 



ig of tba final lyUablc, » 



tiay, iilLSough {which doei not alwayi bapjMa} 
BM ahoukl acan regularly, and have beca il 
n lh« Angers,. — a ia do< ik* 






nt day, I. 



i diflercnt Erom the idMi 
er wrilen, oi iliHerenlly eiprengcd. W» prt il 

K if poerry in vemui like tbo foUowrng, wiiBM 
; and whether, if a youth of eighteen aaii ttf 
!ig aa imintorcaling to hia anccatora, m yooA i 
n ibould publiah il : 



ground, for iho price in good currcDt pntiae, ahou' 
Sis gondii lie unnurliBtibls. Thii ia our now of II 

Perhipj howcrer, in reality, aC Ihat he tells ua abo 

than to maen our ccniurc*. He poaihiy meana lo sa 
" See how a minor can write ! This poem wan actual 
couipawd by a young miui of dghieen, and this by oi 
of only liiteen !" — Bui, alas ! we all remombcr the poeb 
of Cowley It lea, and Pops at Iwelvo ; and so far fro 
heating, with any degree of Burpriae, thai very po* 
TCnes were written by a youth from his leaving acho 
to lui leaving cdlege, inclmioe, »o reaUy believe th 
to be the niosi common of all occurrences ; thai it hs] 

England ; and that tb« lenlb man wrilea b«Uer ven 
than Lord Bj-ron. 

His other plea of privilege oar author rather brin| 
forward ia order to waive it. He certainly, haweve 
doea sihids frsipiciitly to his liunily snd inceslors- 



g:vuig up his daim on the scdto of nnk, he takes cbj 
10 mneniber us oT Dr. Johnson's saying, that when 
Dobleoun appears u an author, his merit shouU I 
bandsofnoly acknowledged. In truth, it is ihia consii 
mUoo only, that mducea ui lo giro Lord Byron's poen 
■ place in our review, bciids our dcaire lo coorael hit 
thai be do forthwith abandon poetrr, and turn his talent 
winch are eauidershle, and bii oppcrltmjtie*, which ai 



have done liefbrfl bin, is 

odiouB.— Gray's Ode on Eu 
'e kepi out Ihe ten hoUfag 
:n of the villagt mi achod d 



emanner, Ihe csluiiitB lines of Mr Rogers " Oa 
" might hare warned the noble author off iboai 
IS, and spared us a whole doaen sucfa T*tnTll M 



Tbs ircsB Hiarklca biiibt with a ear 



CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



25 



id K) of 'mstances in which Ibrmer poets had failed. 
S we do DoC think Lord B jron waa made for trans- 
z, donng his non-age, Adnan'a Addreaa to hia 
, when Pope nioceeded so indifferoitly in the at- 
it If our readers, howerer, are <^ another opinion, 
m J look at it. 



" Ah * foriiaw fleetiof , wairerinf iprita. 
Friend and aaociate of this clay ! 

To wrhat unknowo refioo boma. 
Wik thoQ DOW wine thf dictaot flight 1 
Ko mora with wonted hamour gay. 

Bat palid, choeriea. aii4 foriorn.'* 

ht w tm , be tfaia as it may, we fear his tramlations 



■HtatioDs are great favourites with Lord Byron. 

hate them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; 
, vieariBg them as schoc^ exercises, they may pass, 
jr, why print thfm after they have had their day 

sewed their dim 7 Andwhycall thethinginp. 79,' 
laAiWwi, where fioo words (0cXw \tyuv) of the 
JBtl are expanded into ibor linea, and the other 
ig is p. 81,* where juaorvKnats xoO* &paiif is ren- 
ad ty means of six hobbling verses? As to his Os- 
■e poeay, we are not very good judges, being, in 
^•0 Boderatdy skilled in that species of compcH 
aa, that we ahould, in all probabihty, be criticising 
K bit of the genuine Macpherson itseU^ were we to 
iresB our opimon of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, 
a, the fi)Dowing beginning of a *'Song of Bards'* is 
hn Lordship, we venture to object to it, as &r as we 
a oonprehend it. ** What form rises on the roar of 
vdi, whose dark ghost gk;ams on the red flream of 
npesti ? His vcnce roQs on the thunder ; H is Orla, the 
)«B chief of (Mthona. He was," etc After detaining 
B "brown chief some time, the bards conclude by 
nsf him their advice to " raise his &ir locks ;" then 
**ipread them on the arch of the rainbow ;" and " to 
ah through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of 
■{there are BO less than nine pages; and we can so 
r Tcntnre an ojjMiuon in their fitvour, that they look 
fj ike Macpherson ; and we are positive they are 
toy nearly aa stupid and tireaoroe. 
h • a sort of privilege of poeta to be egotists ; but 
■jdioidd *'use it as not abusbg it ;" and particu- 
^ one who piques himself (though indeed at the 
ipe age of mneteen) of being *' an infant bard," — 
"The artleai Helicon I boast is youth;") — ahould either 
It know, or ahould seem not to know, so much about 
uown ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the 
udy Kat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven 
^ifes, 00 the sd6anie sufatject, introduced with an 
Hwki^, ** he certainly had no intention of inaerting 
dot really ''the particular requeat of aome friends," 
*^eie. b concludes with five stanzas oo himself, '*the 



IBwpacilf 



SPafolL 



last and youngest of a noble line." Hiere is a good 
deal also about his niatemal ancestors, in a poem on 
Lachin y Gair, a mountain where*he spent part oT his 
youth, and might have learnt that pibroch ii not a 
bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a paft of his 
volume to immortalize his employments at school and 
college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without present- 
ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious efiii- 
siflis. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, 
we have the fblttming magnificent stanzaa : 

** There, in apartment! imall and damp, 

The candidate for collefe prisee 
Sits porinv by the midnif bt lamp. 

Goes le*.e to bed, yet early riees. 

" Who reads false quantitios in Sele 

Or puzzles o'er the deep tiiangie. 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal. 

In barbarous Latin doom'd to wraoffle: 

** Renooncinf every pleasinff page. 
From authors of historic use, 
Preferrinf to the letter'd sage 
The square of the hypothenuse. 

" Still harmless are these occupations. 
That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compar<>d with other recreations. 

Which brinf toffether the imprudent** 

We are sorry to hear so bad an accoimt of the col- 
lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic 
stanzas: 

" Our choir would scarcely be excused 
• Even as a band of raw becinoer* ; 
AU mercy now must be rrrused 

To inch a set of croaking sinners. 

" If David, whoa his toib were ended, 

Had heard these biockbeads sing before him. 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended : 

In furious mood he would have tore *jam !* 

But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems 
of this noble minor, it seems wo must take them aa wo 
find them, and be content; for they are the last we 
shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but 
an intruder into the groves of Parnassus ; he never hved 
in a garret, like thorough-bred poets ; and '* though he 
once roved a careless moimt^eer in the Highlands of 
Scotland," he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. 
Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication ; 
and, whether it succeeds or not, " it is highly improba- 
ble, from liis situation and pursuits hereafter," that he 
should again condescend to become an author. Tliare- 
fbre, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What 
right have we poor devils to be nice 7 We are well off 
to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, 
who docs not live in a garret, but, " has the sway" of 
Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; 
and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor 
kwk the gift horse in the mouth. 



fS 



(26) 



StijiUfiiti ilat^0 untf Sbcotcfi iHrbUUietfit; 



I hftd ratber be a kittm, and crj hmw ! 

Than one of tbeae lame metre baUad-iDongen. 

8I1AKSPEARE. 

Such ahaAieleM Barda we hare ; and ret, *t ia tnia. 

There are at mad, abandoo'd Critica too. 

POPE 



PREFACE.! 



All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
inot to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to 
be "tum^ from the career of my humour by quibbles 
quidt, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have 
complied with their counsel. But I am not to be ter- 
rified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with- 
eut arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none 
ftnonaUy who did not commence on the offensive. 
An author's works arc public property : he who pur- 
chases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; 
ind the authors I have endeavoured to comnicmorato 
may do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they 
will succeed better in condemning my scribblings than 
■unending their own. But my object is not to prove 
that I can write well, but, if pouible, to make others 
write better. 

As the Poem has met with far more success than I 
eq>ected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 
■ome additions and altehuioos, to render ii more worthy 
of public perusai. 

In the firat edition of tins Satire, published ancmy- 
moualy, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
were written and inserted at the request of an ingo- 
luocu friend of mine, who has now in tlie press a vol- 
ume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, 
•nd some of my own substituted in their stead ; my 
odj reascm for this being that which I conceive would 
operate with any other person in the some manner — a 
detennination not to publish with my name any pro- 
dnetion which was not emircly and exclusively my own 
toii^MMition. 

With regard to the real talents of many of the poet- 
ical persons whose peribnnances are mentioned or 
aBuded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the 
author that there can be little difference of opinion in 
loe pubUc at large ; though, like other sectaries, each 
has his separate tabcmade of proselytes, by whom his 
alnlities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his 
metrical canons received without scruple and without 
eonsideratioo. But the unquestionable possession of 
oootiderable genius by several of the writers here 
eenaored, renders their mental prostitution more to be 
regretted. Imbecility may bo pitied, or, at worst, 
laugbed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand 
the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 

1 TUs Preftee was written for the second edition of this 
and printed with it 



than the author, that wwne known and able writer hic 
undertaken their exposure ; but Mr. Gifford has 4^ 
voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absoice of ikt 
regular physician, a country practitioner may, in 
of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his 
trum, to prevent tlio extenrion of so deplorable ti 
epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treal* 
ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, ts it ii 
to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can » 
cover the numerous patients afflicted with the 
prevalent and distresKing rabies for riijrming. 
the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed reqian ■ 
Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author 
in merely " bruising one of the heads of the 
though his own hand should suffer in the 
he will be amply satisfied. 



ENGLISH BARDS, 

etc. etc. 



Still must I hear? — shallhoane FiTzoxaALD* it0 
His creaking couplets m a tavern hall, 
And 1 not sing, levt, haply, Scotch Reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse? 
Prepare for rh>'me — I '11 publish, right or wrong: 
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. 

Oh ! Nature's noblest gifl — my gray goose-qiall 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my wiD, 
Tom firom thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of Uttle mem ! 
The pen ! forcdoomM to aid the mental diroes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, 
lliough nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride : 
What wits, what poets dost thou daUy raise! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise I 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 't was thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 

1 IMITATION. 
** Semper ego auditor tantumi nunquamne reponaik. 
Vexatus toties rauci Theieide Codri V^—JuvenaL ^itl 

Mr. Fitigerald^ facetiouolr termed bjr Cthbett the **9m^ 
Beer Poet." infUcta his anoual tribute ef vene on the "U^ 
erary Fund ;** not content with writiBg, be spouts in ysntfj 
after the company have imbibed a reasoiMhle qnanlilf ef iP 
port, to enabkB them to sustain the operatkn. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



27 



iplete, like Hamet** * ahaU be free; 
ud by others, yet beloved by mo : 
oar to-day ; no common thcmei 
uioB, no distemper'd dream 
r path, though full of (homa, ia plain ; 
le verse, and easy be the aCrain. 

^ triiimphaat holds her sovereign sway, 
KMigfa hie her vvilling daves, obey ; 
freqnent harbinger of crime, 
Dotley store to suit the time ; 

4 and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
e halts, and Right begins to &il, 
e boldest start from public neers, 
une, unknown to other fears, 
sin, by Satire kept in awe, 
rom ridicule, though not fixNn law. 

e ferce of Wit ! but not belong 
rrows of satiric 9ong ; 
ces of our age demand 
i^ion, and a mightier hand, 
e tiilhes e'en ibr roe to chase, 
least amusement in the race : 
. I laugh, I seek no other fame — 
p, and Scribbleni arc my game ; 
Lsus ! — ^ye strains of great and small. 
Elegy, have at you all ! 
awl, and once upon a time 
Lg the town a flood of rhyme — 
f freak, unw<Mihy pniiae or blame : 
Uer children do the same, 
■t, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
iKMk, although there's nothing in't. 
lie's sounding charm can save 
' scribbler from an equal grave : 
K must own, since his patrician name 
serve the spurious farce from shame. ' 
George continues still to write, ' 
I the name is veil'd from pubhc sigbL 
le great example, I pursue 
e road, but make my own review: 
iU Jeffrey's — ^yet, like him, will be 
(ted judge of poesy. 

sat serve his time to every trade, 
e— critics all are ready made, 
ey'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
Qough of learaing to misquote ; 

akiii'd to find or forgo a fault; 
ODoing, call it Attic sak ; 
T go, be silent and discreet, 
ust ten stetiing pounda per aheet : 
be, 't will seem a lucky hit ; 
■ora blasphemy, 't will pass for wit ; 

(eeUng — pass your proper jest, 

critic, hated yet carcss'd. 

we own such judgment? no— asaooa 
B December, ice in June ; 
ocy in wind, or oum-m chaff; 
man, or an epitaph ; 

5 ^Moi^eli promises repose to kia p«n in the laat 
las QmiztU. Oh ! that oar voluminoua gentry 
Iks ckanple of Cid Hamtt Bnumgdit 

iHoua ro«th ia mentioned mote partienlarly. with 
ikinaMCfaerplaea. 



Or any other thing that *§ fUse, before 

You trust in critica who themaelvea are aore ; 

Or yield one single thought to be miuled 

By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's BoDoiian head. * 

To theae young tyrants, ^ by themselves misplaced. 
Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste ; 
To these, when authors bend in bumble awe. 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law ; 
While these are cdisors, 't would be sin to spare ; 
While auch are critica, why ahould I forbear 7 
But yet, 80 near all modem worthiea run, 
T b doubtful whom to aeek, or whom to ahun ; 
Nor know we when to apare, or where to atrike. 
Our barda and cenaora are ao much alike. 

* Th«i ahoold you ask me, why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before ; 
If not yet aicken'd, you can atill proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tcU you aa you read. 

Time waa, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise. 
When Sense and Wit with poesy allied. 
No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side. 
From the same fount their inspiration drew. 
And, rear'd by Taate, bloom'd fairer aa they grew. 
Then, in thia happy iale, a Pope's pure atrain 
Sought the rapt aoul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim. 
And raiaed the people'a, aa the poet's fame. 
Like him great Drydett pour'd the tide of aong, 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Conorbvs's acenea could cheer, or Otwat's 

melt— 
For Nature then an Engliah audience feU. 
But why theae names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler barda resign their place? 
Yet to auch tiroea our lingering looka are caat. 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let Satire's self allow, 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now : 
The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
And printera' devila ahake their weary bones ; 
While Sodthey's epica cram the creaking ahelves, 
And Little's lyrica ahine in hot-prea^d twelvea. 

Thua aaith the preacher, * '* nought beneath the pub 
la new;" yet still from change to change we run: 
What varied wonders tempt us oa they paaa ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gaa. 
In tuma appear, to make the vulgar atarc. 
Till the awoln bubble bursts — and all ia air t 
Nor leas new schools of poetry arise. 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er Taste awliile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
Each country book-club bows tbe knee to Baal, 



1 Menrs. Jeffrey And Lambe aro the Alpha and Omeca, the 

first and latt, uf the Edinburgh Review : the olben are mea 

tioned hereafler. 

8 **8talU Mt clomentia. cum tot abiqae 
occurras per iturB parcere churUB." — JuvtmaL sol. 1. 

3 IMITATION. 
**Car tamen hoe potius libeat decumre campo 
Per qoem mas nus eques Auninca» ileAit aJummM*. 

I 



Bi vaeat, et placidi ratiooem admittitia, edam.' 

JuoenaL 8§i 



4 EceMaatsa. Chap. L 



28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And, hurling lawful geniiis from the throne, 

Erects a shrine and idol of ils nwii ; 

Sonic iiudr'n Cidf— hut whom it matters not, 

From soaring SourriiEy down to grovt'ling Stott. * 

■ 
Bcholil ! in vurious throngs tho (icribbling crew, 

For notiro cagir, pa<u in long review : 

Each s|nirs hi8 jaded Pegasu?! apace, 

And rhyme ami blank maintain an C4]ual race ; 

Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 

And tak-s of terror joAtlu on the road ; 

Inmiea'iurablc meaflurcs move along ; 

For 8im|>ering Folly loves a varii?d son;;. 

To strango mysterimis Dulness still the triend, 

Airmins the strain she cannot comprehend. 

Thus Lays of Minstrels^ — may thi.y be the lirt! 

On hiilf-stnms harps whine motimful to the blast. 

WhiU- mo«intain spirits prate to river sprites, 

That liaini.-s may listc'U to their sound at nights ; 

AikI gohhn brats, of Gilpin HomerV brood. 

Decoy yoiini» l)ord«;r-nobk'S through the wood. 

And >kip at every sti-ji, Lortl knows how liigh. 

And {rii:]iti n foolish habes, the Lord knows why; 

Whik- higli-born ladies in their magic cell. 

Forbidding knights to read who cannot s{>cll, 

Dcs|iatch a c/>nrit r to a wi/.ar«l's grave. 

And fioht with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, pn>ud prancing on his roan, 
The t'olden-cresterl haughty Marmion, 
Now t'M-ging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a fvliNi, yet but half a knight. 



t Sti'tt, lietter known id the " Mominpt P<nt" by the name 
of Jlifiz. Thi« p4freonas«s »* at preMot th«j niOKt profound er- 
pkircr of tho bathttn. I rpmcnibi>r, t» thti reifninc family of 
Purtiical. a rpecinl odo of Alaster Stott't, boKiiiDiiif tiius • 

(Srott liiquiiiir (iiioad Ilibi>riiia.) 

"Pfiiin'lf olT-iinne of Braenn/a. 

Erin icnu>ti« (hi>u with a vlniixa." etc. etc. 

Aho N poniiPt to Kali, well worthy nf the Kubji'rt, and a most 

thuiKk'riii;; ttAc coininrnriiiK a» fullowM: 

" Oh ! for a lay * Imul n* thn HiirRO 
That Iiisht« Lapliiiiil's wmiidinK ahuro." 

Iiord have merry un as! tku "Lay of tho List Minstrel" 

was no'.liiiiff to this. 

2 Sire ihi' " liay of the Ln^it Minrtr'-I," pi»*im. Novor waa 
any plan mi liicnncniuuii ami iilii'iin] as ihu xmuDilwork of 
this pr<Mlui;tion. The (>iitr:mri> of Thumicr oml Liehtninir pro- 
lonuUiiix to Bay«;i** tr:iir>-ily, iiiifoniiiiiti'lv t iki'-t away the 
merit of Dritrinality frnm ili«! diiili)?uts lMitwi.-i-n M''<':'i<'uni the 
Hp'rils nf KIihhI nii'l Fi-D. in (lie f^rNt runto. Then wv have 
the atiiiitlili' Williain of I)«>loriiini<, *' a hfnrk iim-* irooper," 
videlsrit, n hapiiy c<uii(>«iunii (»f it«i.irher, hln-rp HriLlfr. and 
hjirhwiiriunii. The pruprii-ty nf hi* m:t3ic:d Im'.y's iiijunnion 
a«>t to r«ai< inn only he i<|iiiil1>-d hy hii rnii.liii ai-knitwh de- 
ment iif hii iiidei>eiMk-ni'R i»f tls; iriiiiimelx ui' iiiii-irmir, al- 
ihoufh, to ii^ehisowii isi*!;:!!!! pliiuiHS '"twif hiw iH'<'k- verse 
•I Hinrihi-'." i. v. lli-' Siillowi*. 

3 Tlitt Ihoirriiphy ni' Gilpin Iliimfr. nnd the mnrvejlonii pe- 
dei'rinn pnui*. who travflhd twn-i- its ni>t a* hi" niuMrr'n honte. 
wilhoiii thi'sid of seviii-lenttiMtl hnou, itie th^fn iPa-urrf in 
the imprnvrnient of hiHte. For iiiei-ji'nt wr hnvi- the iiivjiihli'. 
but by no means spariiiir. l»ox on the fnr hiMoweil ou the 
pace, anil il»! enlraiiri' of a Kui.:ht nnd Charser into the 
raslle. uiiiier the very nniural dinjiii'-'eof u w;on of hay. Mar- 
mion, iln' Imto of fhi! laltcr roin;infe. i^ oxarily- what Willinm 
•if Delor:uiio would have hcn-n, had he iH-en nhle to reid or 
writp. Tiie Poem was mnnuriirturcid for .Mi's^rn. (wiMfoA/s. 
Mwrroft, niwl Milifr, worshipful Booksellers, in cim<>iii«Tation 
iif the receipt of a sum of money ; and, truly, rinwiderinff the 
mspirmion. ii is a very rrcditable production. If Mr. Scott will 
«rrili< for hiiv. let him do his Isiit for his payniartrrs, but not 
dkitrant' his fenius, whirli is undoubtedly great, by a repeti- 
uoo of bteuk letter uniutMm 



Tho gibbet or the field prepared to ^race— 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think^st thou, Scott ! hy vain conrcit pcrchaiM^ 
On public ta^te (o fitist tliy stale romance. 
Though Ml'kkay with his Miller may conibiBe 
To yiuld thy muse just half-a-rrown piT line? 
No ! when tlie sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays arc sear, tlicir former laureLt fade, 
Let such forego the |toet*8 sacred name. 
Who rack theu* brains for lucre, not fiir fame : 
Low may they sink to merited contempt, 
And scorn remunerate the mean attem|ii ! 
Such he tlieir meed, such still the just rcwara 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn A|»ollo*8 venal son. 
Anil bid a Ions " Z'xmI ni^ht to Marmion.^' 

Tli(.*sc are the themes that claim our plaudits nowj 
These are the bards to wIkhu the muse, must bow: 
While MiLTOX, Duvdkjt, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallowM bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been wlien yet the muse was youB^ 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
An epic scarce ten centuries ct^dd claim. 
While awc-stnick nations hailM the magic name: 
The work of each inmi<»rtal banl appears 
The single wonder of a thousand }'ears. ' 
Empires have moulderM from the fare of earth, 
Tongues have expired w ilh those who gave them bil^ 
WithfNit the glory such a btrain can give. 
As even in ruin bids the langtiagc live. 
Not tit) with us, though minor iNirds, content, 
On one great work a life of labour S])€nt : 
With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 
Behold the ballad-monger, South kv, rise! 
To him let Camoexs, Miltox, Ta.-so, yield. 
Whose annual strains, like annie*, take the field, 
First in the ranks see .loan of Arc advance. 
The scourge of En^lnnd, and the Iwast of France' 
Though burnt by wicke«l KEnroRn fiv a witch, 
Heboid her statue placed in glnry^s ni<-he ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from jtrison, 
A virgin Phctnix from her ashes risen. 
Next sec tremendcms Thalalwi come on, • 
Arabians monstroti*, wild, and wuiulrous sooi 
Domdiuiiers dread ilestroycr, who overthrew 
More mad ma<Mcians than the world eVr knew 
Immortrd hero ! all thy foes o'ercome, 
For ever rei^n — the rival of Tom Thumb! 
Siiu'c starl'.'.'d inc tre tk'd befi)rf» tliy fai'e, 
U'ell wiTl tliou diwiniM the last of all thy rare I 
Writ miiiht triumphant Cienii lK:ar thee lienco, 
Illusirioiis roiMjiieror "f rnninwin sense I 

1 "CoimI ni-'ht to MiiriniiMi** — the pmhHic srjil ato ft' 
plie'ie r\'-liim:<iion of Jlrnry HI"uhI, Kkipjirr. on the Mk 
of hiine«it .M-irmion. 

2 Ah ;h»' tWyH-'*y is so rloM-ly ronni rird with llieifcir* 
Uh' Hind, thi-y m ly ainioiit Ix* r|iiiiM«l m-* fiw (rand hiit«K*' 
(Hi^m. In aliiiihiK to .Viltum ami Tanno, wr roosMai^ 
" PHr:iiliiN4 Lost." and "(iii>rii-:ileinnif l.ibrmtB," u thv' 
utanihinl etToitit. ninn* ni-ithi>r thi> *' JtM'ii«alem CoiHiiKivd"^ 
ih" Itiihini. nor ihi! " Pnnnliie Kiciimed" iiI'lhi'l^iplttJiBM't 
ohtniiifl n profMirtionain rcli'tirity to tht-ir liirmer pui*^ 
(luery : Whieh of Mr. South v^» will aurviw 1 

'A Thaluha, Mr Southry'ii seciNMl poem, u writtm ia sp** 
drliNneo of pnreih-nt aisl pts'try. Mr. S. wi»lK'«l to pniif 
pniiifthinff novel, and sncoif-dml to a mimrk^. Joan of ^^ 
was marvflkius Rnouxh, bulThalaba was oneuf ihwei 
" which (in the words of For sum) will bo read wheo 
and Virgil are forgotten, but— mC tiU Osm.*' 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



39 



t and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 

in Mexico, and Prince in Wales ; 

strai^ tales, as other travellers do, 

. than MandeviUe's, and not so true. 

[TTHBT, SouTHET ! ' cease thy raried song ! 

maj chaunt too often and too long : 

art strong in Terse, in mercy spare I 

, alas ! were more than we could bear. 

I spite of aO the world can say, 

D wih verseward plod thy weary way ; 

, Berkley ballads, most unciiol, 

tt devote old women to the devil, * 

B unborn thy dread intent may rue ; 

•Ip thee,'* SoQTHET, and thy readers too. ' 

MMnes the dull disciple of thy school, 

d apostate from poetic rule, 

pie Wordsworth, framer of a lay 

M evening in his favourite May ; 

ma his friend " to shake oflT toil and trouble ; 

his books, for fear of growing double ;" * 
lUi by precept and example, shows 
me is verse, and verse is merely prose, 
ing all, by demonstration plain, 
Mils delight in prose insane ; 
ristmas stories, tortured into rhyme, 
the essence of the true sublime: 
ken he teDs the tale of Betty Foy, 
t naother of " an idiot Boy ;" 
struck sally lad who lost his way, 
i his bard, confounded night with day ; ^ 

on each pathetic part he dwells, 
h adventure so sublimely tells, 

who view the " idiot in his glory," 
e the Bard the hero of the story. 

f^entle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
lij ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
themes of innocence amuse him best, 
obscurity's a welcome guest. 
TOion should her aid refuse 
who takes a Pixy for a Muse,* 

leg Mr. SnMew** psfdon : " BUdoe disdains the de- 
tU of epic.'* See hia preface. Whj is epic degraded 1 
boa 1 Certainly the late RomaunUof Masters CoUle, 
Plf0, Ogilvw, Howie, and rsntle Mratrew CowUy, 
•xahed the B;>ic Mo«: but aa Mr. Seuthetl'* Poem 

• the appellation." allow us to aak^has he aubstituted 
\ better in its stead 1 or must be be content to rival Sir 
BlacAsiare, in tbs quantity aa well aa quality of hia 

rhe OJd Wofloanof BerUey , a Ballad by Mr. Southey, 

an afvd (ftntlewcnnan ia carried away by Beelzebub, 

fh-trotting borse.** 

last hne. " God kelp thee," ia an evident plagiariam 

Aoti-jaeobin to Mr. Stutkn, on hia Dactylica: 

Ip ihM. silly one.' ' — ^Poetry of" the Anti-jacobin, p. S3. 

»1 Ballada. page 4.—*' The tables turned." Stansa 1. 

** Up, up. my friend, and clear your looks— 
Why ah this toil and UY>able 1 

Up, up. my friend, and quit your booka. 
Or surely yoa Ml grow doobie." 

^^ ia hia preface, labours hard to prove that prose 

• are auch the same, and certainly his proeepta and 
are strictly eonfononblo : 

** And thus to Bf'tty's qoMtions he 
Made answer, like a travnilvr bokl, 
fhrn rork did crow to- who, to- who. 
And the sun did shine so cold,** etc., etc _ 
Lyrical BaOada. page 19B. 

miig^t Foema, page 11. Songs of the Pixies, i. «. 
to FaMas. Page 43, we have. ** Lines to a yoong 
Hi Mfi a: " LiMB to a Toosff Aik*' 



Yet none in 1(^ numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
How well the subject suits his noble imnd ! 
** A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind !" 

Oh ! wonder-working Lewis ! Monk, or Bard, 
Who fain wouklst make Parnassus a church-yard ! 
Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow. 
Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombe thou tak'st thy stand. 
By gibbering spectres hailed, thy kindred band j 
Or tracest chaste description on thy page, 
To please the females of our modest age. 
All hail, M. P. ! ' from whose infernal brain 
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
At whose command, " grim women" throng in crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 
With ** small gray men," — " wild yagers," and what not. 
To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott: 
Again, all hail ! If tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke aloae can vanquish the disease ; 
E'en Satan's self with thee might dread to dweD, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper helL 

Who in soA guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire. 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd. 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd 7 
'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day. 
As sweet, but as immoral in his lay ! 
Grieved to c(Mulcmn, the Muse must still be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er the altar bums ; 
From grosser incense with disgtist she turns : 
Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
She bids thee ** mend thy line and sin no more." 

For tliee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibenuan Strang ford ! with thine ejet of Uue, * 
And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue. 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires, 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires. 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
Nor vend thy stmnets on a (also pretence. 
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place 
By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace 7 
Mend, Straroford ! mend thy morals and thy taste 
Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : 
Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore. 
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy Moore. 

In many marbl©HX)ver'd volumes view 
Hatley, in vain attempting something new: 
Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme. 
Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time, 
His style in youth or age is still the same. 
For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shine ! 
At least, I 'm sure, they triiunph'd over mine. 



1 "For every one knows little Matt's an M. P."— See S 
Poem to Mr. /^«j»#, in Tht HUtesman, snppoxed to be wiilr 
ten by Mr. Jekyll. 

3 The reader, who mav wish for an explnnntion of this, may 
refer to " Strangford* t Cnwoaiw," P»»ge 137, note to page *!. 
or to the last page of the Edinburgh Review of Strangford-0 
Camotnt. It is also to be remarked, that the thinga given lo 
the public as Poems of Camoens, are no more to be (bona m 
the original Portaguass than In the Bong of SoUnwib 



30 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Of " Music^s Triumphi" all who read may swear 
That luckless Munc ntsver triumphM there. ■ 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
Oil dull Devotion— lo ! the Sabbath Bard, 
Sepulchral Gkahame, pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme, 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms. 
Perverts tlie Prophets, and purloins the Psahna. * 

Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 
A thousand \^ons of a thousand things, 
And shows, dissolve! in thine own melting tears, 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And art thou not llwir prince, harmonious Bowlxs ? 
Thou first great orrxlc of tender souls? 
Whether in sighing winds thou scck'st relief, 
Or consolation in a yellow leaf; 
Whetiier thy musf most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford beDs, * 
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend. 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend ? 
Ah ! how much juster were thy Muse's hap. 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'Tis tliinc, with gentle Little's moral song. 
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years : 
But in her toeiis thy whining powers are vain : 
' She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scomest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
" Awake a louder and a fofli^ strain," ♦ 
Such as none hcanl before, or will again ; 
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud. 
By more or less, are sung in every book. 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Coox. 
N«>r this alone, but pausing on the rood, 
l*he bard sighs forth a gentle episode ;* 
And gravely tells — attend each beauteous Mkn !^ 
^Vhcn first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles ! in thy menoory let this precept dwell, 
Stick to thy Sonnets, man! at least they selL 

1 Hai/hu^ $two miMrt notorious v«»n»o productions, are *' Tri- 
Uinphs ofTempor." and "Triumphs of Music.** He hasabo 
written much rom«(i]r in rhjrme, Epivtle*. etc. rtn. As he ia 
rather hh elccant writer of notes and bioffraphjr, let ns rscoro- 
mend Pope's Advice to fVneknrU^to Mr. fl.'s consideration ; 
vis. "to ctmvert hiw poetry into pnniM," which may bn easily 
dune by takmr away the linnl yyjlable of oarh couplet. 

2 Mr. ^rdA/fiMf has poured forth two volumes of cant, under 
the name of " Sabbath Wnlka," and " Biblical Pioturaa." 

3 8c<« BovUy$ Honncf*. «tc.— " S.»nnot to Oxford/* and 
'Stanzai on h«uirinc the Bt-IK of OHtHml.*' 

A •• Awake a luudnr." etc. etc. \% the fJrrt Hno in BowUa*a 
S|»irit of rKneoverj :" a \ ory «i>irited and pretty Dwarf Epic. 
A iiiinK other exquisite linos we have the followinff :— 

" A kiM 

Sliiln on the lnit*ninK *il*'m!c. nevi>r yet 
Here heard ; ihey trembled oven a* it the power, " etc. etc. 
- rhiit i«, tha woods of Madeira trembled to a k\m, very much 
astonished, as well they micht be. at iiuch a phenomenon. 

5 The episode above alludml to is the story of " Riibert a 
Hachin.** and " Anna d'Arfrt." a pair of constant lovers. 
«IK> perfbnned the kiss above-mentioned, that startled the 
««oili of Madeira 



But if some new-bom whim, or larger br3>e. 
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a serib 
If chance some bard, though once by dmices frai^ 
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
If Pope, whose fame and genius from the fint 
Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan 
The first of poets was, alas ! but man ! 
Rake fiom each ancient dimghill every pearl, 
Consult Lord Fanny, and conSde in Cujill ; ' 
Let an the scandals of a former age 
Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page ; 
AflTect a candour which thou canst not feel, 
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
Write as if St. J(^'s soul couki still inspire. 
And do from hate what Mallet' did for hire. 
Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time. 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rfaym^' 
ThrongM with the rest around his living head, 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, 
A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 
And link'd thee to the Dutnciad fear thy pains.* 

Another Epic ! who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast. 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends lus goods to market — all alive ! 
Lines forty thousand. Cantos twenty-flvc ! 
Fresh fish from HeUcon ! who '11 buy 7 who H boyT 
The precious bargain 's cheap^in faith not L 
Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight. 
Too much o'er bowls of 'rack prdong the night; 
If commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brab^ 
And Amos Cottle strikes the Ljrrc in vain. 
In him an author's Iticklcss lot behoM ! 
Condemn'd to make the books which once be sold. 
Oh ! Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus I what a name 
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame !— 
Oh ! Amos Cottle ! for a nxHncnt think 
What meagre profits spread from pen and ink! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams. 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? 
Oh ! pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
Had Cottle * still adom'd the counter's side, 
Bent o'er the desk, or, bom to useful tcMls, 
Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty Iknh^ 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 
As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may riefljp^ 

I Curll'n one of the heroes of the Donciad, and was a boa 
seller. LonI Fanny is the p«)etical name of Lord Ikrtk 
author of " Lines to the imitator of Horace." 

3 Lord Bolinmbroke hired Mallet to traduce P«p#aflvl 
decease, because the poel had retained some copies of am 
by Lord Bolhtf broke (the Patriot KinR>. which that«iM< 
but malignant genius, bad cdercd to be deiitroyed. 

3 Dtnnit the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 
''Bikmce. ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cyntiiia howls, 
Makinit night hidHius — an«wer him, ye owU !*' — Dimtk 

4 See R<nole»^a late edition of P^pe^a works, for wbicb 
received 304/.: thus Mr. H. has experi«nced kowmnciisil 
it is to profit by tlie reputation of another, than to elsvaisi 
own. 

5 Mr. Cottle, ^moe orJaerpk, I don*t know whiek. bsC« 
or both, once sellers of books thny did not write, aai si 
writora of books that do not seO, have published a pair 
Epics. " Alfred" (poor Alfred ! Pf has been at bi» M 
and the FaU of *' Cambria.*' 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



31 



iB, ambrosia] Rkhmond ! heaTM 

ICE * aU his granito weight of leares: 

id moDuments of mental paint 

ttioDs of a plodding brain, 

ey readi the K^ fkO lumboing back again. 

a Ijre and cheek aerenely pale, 

LCMV9 wanders down the rale ! 

r they roae, and might have UoomM at hut, 

late peridiM hj the northern blast: 

le bud by Caledonian gales, 

w wither as the blast prerails ! 

t works let da$$ie SHzmsLD weep ; 

.e hund disturb their early sleep ! * 

why should the Bard at once resign 
I fiiiTour from the sacred Nine ? 
utled by the mingled howl 

woives, that stiU in darkness prowl : 
rood, which mangle as they proy, 
ostinot, all that cross their way ; 
mg, the Uving or the dead, 
nd— these harpies must be fed. 

injured unresisting jrield 
Msessioa of their native field? 
f thus beiore their fangs retreat, 
s bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat? ' 

miortal Jeffret ! once, in name, 

iild boast a judge almost the same : 

ke, so merciful, yet just, 

that Satan has resigned his trust, 

be Spirit to the world again, 

t letters as he sentenced men ; 

ess mighty, but with heart as black, 

is willing to decree the rack ; 

cotnts betimes, though all that law 

taught him is to find a flaw. 

ntnicted in the patriot school 

irty, though a party tool, 

, if chance his patrons should restore 

sway they forfeited before, 

ig toils some recompense may meet, 

is Daniel to the Judgment Seat. 

E»* shade indulge the pious hope, 

^ thus, present him with a rope : 

f virtues ! man of equal mind ! 

odemn as to traduce mankind, 

<ceive— for thee reserved with care, 

udgment, and at length to wear.** 

great Jeffret ! Heaven preserve his life. 

Ml the fertile shores of Fife, 

t sacred in his flitive wars, 

rs sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 

•member that eventful day, 

orious, almost fatal fray. 



net hath manofacturMl th« eompoosBt parts of a 
trtn. oiMHi thft) beaotic* of " Riehmood Hill.** and 
ibo taliM in a chnrminf view of Tumham 
wTHnith. Breotfofd, Old and New, and the parts 

ntwtmenf! tboash praiied bf every Enflbh Re- 
tt binerif reviled by the Edimburfh. After all, 
SheflWU ii a miui of coniiderable fenios : his 
tf DwitMrUnd ** is worth a thooaand " Lyrical 
1 a* Inst fl(\y " dccraded Epiea** 

wkieh ovariiaiifs Eiliaburgh. 



When Little's leadless pistol met his eye. 

And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by 7 * 

Oh day disastrous I on her firm-set rock, 

Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 

Dark roU'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 

Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 

Tweed ruffled half his wave to form a tear, 

The other half pursued its cahn career ; * 

Arthi7r's steep summit nodded to its base, 

The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place ; 

The Tolbooth fell--fbr marUe sometimes can, 

On such occasions, feel as much as man— 

The Tolbooth felt defiuuded of his charms 

If Jeffrey died, except within her arms : * 

Nay, last, not least, on that portentous mora, 

The sixteenth storey, where himself was born, 

His patrimonial garret fell to ground. 

And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 

Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white 

Fk>w'd all the Canongate with mky streams ; 

This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, 

That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue. 

And all with justice deem'd the two combined 

The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 

But Caledonia's Goddess hover'd o'er 

The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moot c, 

From either pistol snatch'd the vengefiil lead. 

And straight restored it to her favourite's head : 

That head, with greater than magnetic power, 

Caught it, as Dana£ the golden shower; 

And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, 

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 

" My son," she cried, << ne'er thirst for gore agun, 

Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 

O'er politics and poesy preside. 

Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 

For, long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 

Or Scottish taste decides on English wit. 

So long sliall last thine unmolested reign. 

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 

Behold a chosen band shall aid thy plan. 

And own thee chiefUin of the critic dan. 

First in the ranks illustrious sludl be seen 

The travell'd Thane! Athenian Aberdeen. « 

Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer,* and sotuetimei^ 

In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 

1 In 1806. Menra. Jtfrtji and Movrt met at Chalk-Farm. 
The duel was prevented by the iaterrerence of the magistracy ; 
and, on examination, the balli of the pistols, like the conraf* 
of the combatants, were found to have evaporated. Thistaet. 
dent gave oecaiiun to much wacgery in the daily prints. 

3 The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; it would 
have been highly reprehensible in the EnfUnh half of the rivsr 
to have shown the tmallest symptom of apprehension. 

3 This display of sympethv on the part of the Tolbooth (the 
principnl prison in Edinburgh), which truly leems to have bssa 
HMMt affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. It 
was to be apprehended, that the many unhappy eriminalsex^ 
ented in the front, might have rendered the edifice nors eal- 
loos. She is said to be of the sofVer sex, bscaase her dsBcaey 
of feeling on thn day wa* truly femioias, tboagh. Ikt most 
feminine impubM, perhaps a little seHWi. 

4 Hit lordship has been much abroad, is a inswbsr af Ae 
Athenian Society, and reviewsr of ^sITs Topofpsplif ofTrer. 

5 Ml . Htrhrri is a translator of IcelaDdie and ollMr postrF. 
One of the principal pieces is a " Song on ths iseovtrf of Tlsr't 
Hammer-** the translation is a pleasant ctawt fa ttavvlgav 
tongue, and ended thu« : — 

*' Instead of money and rings, I wot. 
The hammer's bruises wars btr lot; 
Thus Odin's son his banmisr iOt " 



BYRON'S WORKS 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



33 



le hutda applaad, a Tooalfew! 
a aleep, why John applauds it too. 

» we now, ah ! wfaerdbre should we turn 
\XT fathers were, unless to mourn? 
B Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
I dubiess, do ye fear to blame? 
die nobles of our present race 
rh distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
they smile on Italy's buflTooos, 
jp Catakni's paiHaloons, * 
own drama yields no fairer trace 
a puns, of humour than grimace. 

: AusoinA, ridllM in erery art, 
nanners, bat corrupt the heart, 
Kotic follies o*er the town, 
n vice and hunt decorum down : 
d strumpets languish o*er Deshayes, 
the promise which his form displays ; 
-ton bounds before the enraptured kioks 
oarquisses and stripling dukes : 
om lechers eye the lively Presle 
i^ht I'unbs that spurn the needless reil : 
tni bare her breast of sacrvr, 
white arm and point the pliant toe : 
her love-inspiring song, 
lair neck and charm the listening throng ! 
mar scsrthe, suppressors of our vice ! i 
saints, too delicately nice ! 
Iccrees, our sinfld souls to save, 
tankards foam, no barbers shave, 
ndrawn and beards unmown display 
-cverence fi>r the sabbath-day. 
t once the patron and the pile 
1 folly, Grcville and Argyle ! * 
I proud palace. Fashion's hallowM fane, 
de her portals for the motley train, 
new Petronius ' of the day, 
' of pleasure and of play ! 
lired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
g hite, the sofl lascivious lyre, 
I om Itaty, the step from France, 
;ht orgy, and the mazy dance, 
af beauty, and the flush of wine, 
wis, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine : 
I htmiour, — Comus all allows ; 
I, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 

nd CaUUrni reqotre littte notice, for the vinfe of 
I the nlary of tlie olher. wi!l enable lu looir to re- 
) amuiinf vimubniKlt; bccidMi. we are still black 
m the iqueese on the 6nrt nifht of the lady*^ ap- 
trowwrs. 

mK any blunder, racfa as mistakine a street for a 
wve to state, that it is the Inntiiution, aod not the 
t aame, which is here alluded to. 
an with whom I am liiiththr acquainted, lost in tbo 
as sevpral thousand pounds at backfammon. It is 
to the manaf er in this instance to sajr, that some 
isapprobation was manifested. Bat why are the 
»f gamine aUowed in a place devoted to the society 
■ 1 A pteasant thinf for the wives and danffhters 
are bIfMt or carved with such connexions, to bear 
sbles rattlior in one room, and the dice in an- 
is the rase I myself can testify, as a late unworthy 
a tmtHafion which materially aflTects die mo'als 
orders, while the lower may not even move to the 
bor and Addle, without a chance of iadictiQent for 
vtitor. 

s. ** arbiter elegantiaiara" to Nero, ** and a very 
in hb day." as Mr. CiajTsvc's old Badwtor saitb. 
O 10 



Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made : 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask. 
Nor think of Poverty, except " en masque," 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire wu. 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er. 
The audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweeps 
Now in kxMe waltz the thin-clad daughters leap : 
The first in lengthened line majestic swim, 
The last display the free, unfetteFd limb : 
Those for I£bemia's lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which Nature could not spare ; 
These after husbands wing theu* eager flight. 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial nighu 

Oh! Uest retreats <^ infamy and ease ! 
Where, all forgotten, but the power to please. 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought. 
Each swain may teach new ^stems, or be taught : 
There the blithe youngster, just rctum'd from Spain^ 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
The jovial caster's set, and seven 's the nick, 
Or— done ! — a thousand on the coining trick ! 
If mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life. 
And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife. 
Fit consummation of an earthly race 
Regim in folly, ended in disgrace. 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death. 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath • 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl. 
To live like Clodius,' and like Falklaivd' fall. 
Truth ! rouse some genuine bard and guide his hand, 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
Even I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skili'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 
Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost. 
To fight my course through Passion's countless host. 
Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal ; 
Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say, 
'* What art thou better, meddling fool, than they ?" 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist, in me. 
No matter — when some bard, in virtue strong, 
GirroRD perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! aikl my voice 
Be only heard to hail him and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise ; tt>ongh I 
May feel the lash that virtue must appiy. 



1 Mutato nomine do te 
Fabula narraiur. 
S I knew the late Lord Falktamd well. On dunday nifht I 
beheld him presidins at his own table, in nil the honest pride 
or hospitality ; on Wednesday morning; at three o'clock, I saw, 
stretchod before me, all that remained of coursire. feelins. and 
a host of passioas. He was a irallant and succes*ful oflker; 
his faulta were the faults of a sailoi^-as such. Britons wHI for- 
give them. He died like a brave man in a tMsttfir eaosc. tot bad 
he fallen in like manner on the deck of the frifate tdVhieh ha 
was jost appointed, his last moments would have been hsU 
up by bis countiymon as ao example to svoeeeding ' 



34 



BYBON'S WORKS. 



Ab for the smaDer fiy, who iwarm in shoals, 
From nilly Hafiz * up to siinple Bowles, 
%Vhy should we call thom from their dark abode, 
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham road? 
Or (smco some men of fasliicm nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) firom Bond-street, or the Square 7 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
\Vhal harm ? in spite of every critic elf, 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try. 
And live in prologues, though liia di-amas die. 
Lords too are bards : sucii things at times befall. 
And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the tiraeit. 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes 7 
R06COM&105 ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, 
No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 
Tlie paralytic puling of Carlisle: 
The puny school-boy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 
But who ibrgives the senior's ceaseless verse. 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 
What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer ! * 
So dull in yoAth, so drivelling in his age. 
His scenes alone had dainn*d oiv sink'uig stage : 
But managers fur once cried "hold, enough !" 
Nor druggM their audience with the tragic stuff. 
Yet at tlieir judgment let his lordship laugh, 
And case his volumes in congenial calf: 
Yes ! dotT tliat covering where morocco shines, 
And hang a calf-skin ' on those recreant lines. 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread, 
With you I war not : Gifford's heavy hand 
Has crushed, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On " all the talents" vent yoiu- venal spleen. 
Want your defence, let pity be your screen 
Let monodius on Fo\ regale your crew. 
And Melville's Mantle * prove a blanket too ! 
One conunon Lethe waits each hapless bard, 
And peace be with you ! H is ^our best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give. 
Could bid your lines beyond a mon jng live ; 
But now at once your tleeting labours dose. 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be't frum me unkindly to u]>braid 
The lovely Uosa's prose in masquerade, 

1 What would lie the neiitinHtnts of the Pcnian Anaereon, 
Hnjiz, ooulil hu ruo from his upk-ndid Kpulohrn at Shecraz, 
where he rriKwus wih Fcrdousi and 5a(fi, the Oriental Aamcr 
and CatiiUtut, nnd bt>h<>ld hi« nnine HiHUined hj one Stotl of 
Dromore. the n)<ii>i impudent and execrable of literary poacb- 
vn for the dailjr prinul 

8 The Eiir] of Carlisle ha« lately pubtinhed an eighteen-penny 
IHunphlct on th*; sUite of the »latr«i, and oflTfr* hia plan for 
buildiof a d<;w theatre : it m to Xte hopod hia lordship will be 
permitted tu bring forward any tliuig tor the stage, except his 
OWD tragedies. 

3 ' Duff that lion's hide. 
And haog a calf-skio on those recreant limbs.** 

ifhaks. King John. 
LoM C. s works, most resplcndcntly buiusl, form a coospicu- 
I ornament to his book-shelves : 

**Tbe rert is all but leather and prunella.** 
4 MiMLU*a Mantle, a parody on " Elijah's Mantle/* a poem. 



Whose strains, the ikithfiil ecboMofha- 
Leave wandering comprehenskm far behind,* 
Though CRtrscx's bards no more our journals fi^ 
Some stragglers skirmish round their colunun sl3L 
Last of the howling host which once was Bkll\ 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.* 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl. 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shocs^ 
St Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, 
Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowdb applnd! 
How ladies read, and Uterati laud ! 
If chance some wicked wag should pass lus jest, 
'Tis sheer ill-nature, don't the world know best? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
And Capel Lofft^ dedares 'tis quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Swains ! quit the plough, resign tho useless spade: 
Lo! Burns and Bloomfield,* luy, a greater fitf, 
Gifford was bom beneath an adverse star, 
Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over FktSi 
Then why no more 7 if Phoebus smiled on yon, 
Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too? 
Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized; 
Not inspiration, but a mind d'uicascd : 
And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
No conunon be inclosed, without an ode. 
Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 
Alike the rustic and mcchaiiic soul: 
Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong 
Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
So shall tho fair your handiwork peruse ; 
Your sonnets sure shall please — pcrnaps your sbosi 
May Moorland * weavers boast Pindaric skill, 
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid tlio tribute due, 
Neglected Genius ! let me turn to you. 
Come forth, Oh Campbell!* give thy talents 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope 7 
And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last. 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 



1 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the Doled 

K , seems to be a follower 01 the Delia ( -nuca ! 

and has published two volumns of very nwpectalde absudidM 
In rhyme, as limes go ; besides sundry novels in the style of Ikt 
first edition of the Monk. 

S These are the signatures of various worthies who fifon 
in the poetical dtportments of the newspHiM'rs. 

3 Capd I^fftt Esq., the Mscimns of Jioemaken, asi 
Preface-writer general to distmw'd versemcn : a kind of gnliB 
accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhysM^ bil 
do not know how to bring it forth. 

4 See Jfotkndtl Bloemjirld^a ode. elepy, or whatever hs er 
any one else ehoeses to call it, on the tnclusuie of " Heniar 
ton Green.** 

5 Vide "Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlandisf 
Suflbnlshire.** 

It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the rc^ci 
the author oT** The Pleasures of Memory," and "TbePlear 
urea of Hope,** the most beautiful didactic poems in our Isa- 
guage, if we except Pope's Essay on Man : but so aaany 
poetasters have surted up, that even the names of CbsvWl 
and Roger» are become strange 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



36 



t Uest remendir&nce stiD inspire, 

e to wonted tones thy hallow'd Ijre ! 

IpoDo to his vacant throne, 

y countxy's booour and thine own. 

xist deserted Poesy still weep 

sr last hopes with pious Cowpeh sleep 7 

erdumce, from his cole bier she turns, 

the turf that wraps her Uklnstrel, Burns ! 

igh coitfempt hath markM the spurious brood, 

^ho rhyme from ibUy, or for food ; 

«ne gemune sons, 't is her*8 to boast, 

St sflRBduig, stin effect the most; 

ley write, and write but as they feel— 

less, GiPFORD, SoTUXBT, Macnkii..' 

ilumbers GirroaD 7^ once was ask'd in vain:* 
obers GirroRD? let us ask again: 
no foUJes for his pen to purge 7 
DO fools whose backs demand the scourge ? 
i DO sins for Satire's Bard to greet? 
I giganUc Vice in every street 7 
rs or princes tread Pollution's path, 
le sUke the law's and Muse's wrath 7 
: with guilty glare through future time, 
eacons of consummate crime 7 
tee, GiFFORo! be thy promise claim'd, 
1 men better, or at least ashamed. 

>y White ! * while life was in its spring, 
roung muse just waved her joyous wing, 
er came, and all thy promise fair 
ht the grave, to sleep for ever there, 
t a noble heart was here undone, 
ieoce' self di»troy'd her favourite son 1 
; too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
1 the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit, 
ine own genius gave the final blow, 
d to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
nek eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
through roiling cbuds to soar again, 
s own feather on the fatal dart, 
'd die shafl that quivcr'd in his heart : 
'e his pang") l^it keener far to fed 
i the pimon in^uch impelled the steel, 
i tame plumage that had warm'd his nest 
) last Ufo-drop of his bleeding breast. 

be who say in these enlighten'd days . 
ndid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
in'd invention, ever on the wing, 
pels the modem bard to sing : 
that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, 
MB that fatal word to genius — tnte ; 

i. aatfaor of Uw Baviad and Mnviad, the first satires 
. aod translator of Juvenal. 

trsoslator of WieUn<C» Oberoo and VirgU*i 
lad antbor of SaaU an epic poem. 
. wboM poeoM an deeervedir popular: particolarly 
•s Seailh. or the Waes of War," of which ton 
xtpies were sold in one month. 
#ord promised publicly that the Baviad and Hcriad 
t be his test original works: 1st him remember, 
phictantes dracone*.'* 

Ktrke WkiU died at Cambridfe, in October 1808, 
eooe of too much exertion in the poirait of studies. 

have matured a mind which diaease and poverty 
mpair. and which Death itself deMvoyed rather than 
[lis poems sbonod in aoeh beaaiies as must imprea 
with the KveKest regret that so ihoft a period was 
taieota which would have dignified syso tbe laered 
IS was iss tin s rl to 



Yet truth soroethnes wiU lend her noblest fire^ 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
Thb fact in virtue's name let Crabbe attest^ 
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

And here let Shee * and genius find a place 
Whose pen and pencil yieki an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sistor arts combine. 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, 
Or pour the easy rhjrme's harmonious flow. 
While honours doubly merited attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's firiend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour ; 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has marked ate 
The dime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o^er. 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian 8h<n« : 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by. 
And views the remnants with a poet's eye ! 
Wright ! ^ 't vras thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate Bards ! ' who snatch'd to h^ 
Those gems too long withheld from modem sight ; 
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreaUk 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe. 
And aU their renovated fragrance flung. 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue. 
Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though sod the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone. 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as these, with just applause. 
Restore the Muse's violated laws : 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime. 
That mighty master ot luuneaning rhyme ; 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear. 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear, 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass. 
But now worn down, appear in native brass ; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around, 
Evaporate in similies and sotmd : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
False glare attracts, but more oflends the eye. ^ 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop. 
The meanest object of the lowly group, 
Whose verse, of all but cliildish prattle \oid. 
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Llotd: ' 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 

1 Mr. Sket, author of "* Rhyroei on Art.*' and ** Elemems 
of Art." 

2 Mr. WrighU late Conrol- General ftir the Seven Wands, ii 
author of a very beautiful poem jiuit publiuhe*! : it ii entitlei 
" Hora ionicw," and is deacripUve of the Ule« and lbs adjar 
cent coaat of Greece. 

3 The trannlaton of the Anthology hnw mnee published 
separate poems, which evince genius that only requires oppor 
tunity to attain eminence. 

4 The neglect of the " Botanic Garden" w «>«» proof or 
returning ta»te . ihe scenery is its cole recororoendation. 

5 Me«rs. AowAs and ZJsyd. tht moel tenoWa fbUewus ol 
Bonthey and Co. 



BYttON'S WORKS. 



And other riclon ' GU Ihe applauding A'la : 
A few brief gHienliona <l«l ilonf, 
WhOH MDi larg« ths poet ind hii aong : 

Th« Mnnem oKntion of n dubknii niuns ! 
When Fame'i loud Inimp hath.Uonn ill ix 
Though long the boujkI, ihe echo iltrpa it 
And gLorjr, like the 'pha>nui mktM her hreii 



Shall hoary Gruita i 
Eipett in Klenea, mor 
ShiU IhcK ippioach t) 



Require 
ye,«h< 



Oh, duk uylum uT ■ Vsn 



Soi 


unk in duloea and m lui 


.1 in rfiame. 




Th.i 




.►«arcc redeem thy fci*' 


Bt.t 


where r>irl.i>rDlli her 1 


lurer wave. 




The 


putiil miue delighted 1. 


>r»tolaTei 












Too 


mwn the bards thai hmu.1 her clauic 


grove, 


Wh. 


sro RicnAHDi wakei a . 






And 


mndem Bnton juid; p 


raise Ihcir nn 


^"^ 


Fi 


jr me, oho Ihui unaak'd 


hsTs dared to 


■ ten 


My. 


country wbsl her soiu il 


lould kmn. too wel, 


Ze>] for her honour bide n» 


heroengige 




ThehottofidioUthUinlwl 


bar age. 






ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



sr 



QM Ker honoar'd name shall Iom, 
edom, dearest to the muse. 
f bards but emulate thy fame, 
-e worthy, AlbKHi, of thy name ! 
: was in science, Rome io power, 
ppear*d in her meridian hour, 
once, ^r Albion, to have been, 
dictatr^. Ocean's mighty queen : 
cay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
rood piers Ue riuUter'd in the main: 
y strength may sink in ruin huri*d, 
all, the bulwark of the world. 
ase, and dread Canandra^s fate, 
; ever scoff 'd at, hiJl too late ; 
«8 kiAy still my lay confine, 
bards to gain a name like tlune. 

ess Britain ! be thy rulers blest, 

orades, the people's jest ! 

motley orators dispense 

if rhetoric, though not of sense, 

nro's ooOugpes hate him for his wit, 

; PoKTLAVD ' fills the place of Pitt. 

gain adieu ! ere this the sail 
le hence is shivenng in the gale : 
osst and Calpe's * adverse height, 
iTs' minarets must greet my sight: 
I stray through beauts* native dime, 
is dad in rocks, and crown'd with snows 
ime. 

back return, no letter'd rage 
y commonplace book on the stage : 
^KSTiA* rival luddess Carr, 
m whose work he sou^ to mar; 
Eir and Elgih * still pursue 
' iame through regions of virtu ; 
s thousands on their Phidian fi^aks, 
onuments and maimM antiques ; 
eir grand saloons a general mart 
utikUed blocks of art : 
urs let dilettanti tell, 
raphy to classic Gcll ; * 
otent, DO more sliall interpose 
kind with poesy or prose. 

*ve held my undisturbM career, 
rancour, steelM 'gunst selfish fear : 
rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
ibtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 

f mioe beinf asked wby his Grace of P. was 

>ld woman? rpplted. " be supposed it was bo- 

mM bearing/* 

e aneieot name of Gibialtar. 

is the TorkiiA word for Constantinople. 

miarkable for the beautj of its iniiabitanta. 

acasos. 

stM (whose tremcndoos travels are forthcom- 

seoratMos, graphical, topofrapUcal, and typo- 

Msed, oo Sir John Carr*a noiacky suit, that 

t prevented his purchase of the " Stranger in 

lie. mj Lord ! bos your kirdship no more feel- 
p-toariat 1 but " two of a trade,** they ear. etc. 
■ woqLI fiun persuade us 'Jiat all the fijirures, 
out DOMs, in his stone-shop, are the work of 
edat JudsMis.** 

Topofrapfay of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail 
pprobatioo of every man possessed of classical 
» the information Mx. 6. conveys to the mind 
as for tba abifity and research the respective 



My voice was heard again, though not so loud ; 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd. 
And now at once I tear the veil away : 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of McLBoi/RXE-hotise, 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Hollaitd's spous«^ 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
EniiTA's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough. 
And feel they too are " penetrable stuff:" 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go^ 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fill 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall. 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath iny eyes : 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
I've leam'd to think and sternly speak the truth ; 
Leam'd to deride the critic's starch decree. 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss ; 
Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters firown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, arm'd in proof^ the gaontlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce. 
Thus much I 've dared to do ; how far my lay 
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others tay ; 
This let the worid, which knows not how to spare, 
Yet rarely blames uqjustly, now declare. 



POSTSCRIPT.^ 



I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went 
to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, 
the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehe- 
ment critique on my poor, gentle, unrmsting muse, 
whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodly 
ribaldry: 

" Tantvne anirois ctslestibus irm !'* 

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Akdrew 
AouECHEEK saith, ** an I had known he was so cun- 
ning offence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought 
him," What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Boe- 
phorus before the next number has passed the Tweed, 
But yet I hope to light my pipe witli it in Persia. 

My northern firiends have accused me, with justice, o( 
personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, 
Jeffrey : but what else was to be done with him and 
his dirty pack, who feed ** by lying and slandering," and 
slake their thirst by ''evil-speaking?" I have adduced 
facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have 
stated my free opinion ; nor has he thence sustained 
any injury : what scavenger was ever soiled by being 
pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England 
because I have censured there ^ persons of honour and 
wit about town ;" but I am coming back again, and 
their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Tliose 
who know me can testify that my motives for leaving 
England are very different from fears, literary or per* 
■onal ; those who do not, may one day be convince 



1 Pabliahed to the Second Edition. 



38 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Sini^e the publication of this thing, my name has not 
been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready 
to answer for my (raniigressionf), and in daily cxpecta- 
titm of Hundry cartolR ; hut, alas I " The age of chiv- 
alry is over;" or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no 
spirit now-a-da3rs. 

rniere is a youth ^^depC Hewson Clarke (subaudi, 
Esq.), a aizcr of Emanuel College, and I believe a den- 
ken of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced 
in those pages to much better company than he has been 
accusUHned to meet : he is, notwithstanding, a very sad 
dof^ and, for no reason that I can discover, except a 
penooal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge 
to sit for a fellowsliip, and whom the jealousy of his 
Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been 
abusing me, and, what Is worse, the defenceless innocent 
above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some 
months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him 
any provocation ; indeed I am guiltless of having heard 
hb name, till it was coupled with the Satirist He has, 
therefore, no reason to complain, and I dare say that, 
Ike Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pieascd tlian other- 
^lise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the 
honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my 
bo<^ except the editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, 
ia a gentleman. God wot ! I wish he could impart a lit> 
de of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear 
tfiat Mr. Jcani.NGH AM is about to take up the cudgels 
for his Maecenas, Lord C arlisle : I hope not ; he was one 
af the few who, in the very short intercourse I had 



with him, treated me with kindness when a bc^, lal 

whatever he may say or do, ** pour on, I will endure.* 

I have nothing further to add, save a general noca of 

thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; ai4 

in the words of Scott, I wish 

" To St and each a fair good night. 
And rosy dreams and iluinbers light** 



Jlufollowm^ LmettDtrt wriUenby Mr, Fitzoxralb^ 
in a Copy of English Bajum avd Scotch Sb 
VIEWERS :— 

I find Lord Byron scoma my muao— 

Oiu* fates are ill agreed I 
His verse is safe— I canH abuae 
Those linaa I never read. 

TT • P. P. 



Hit Lordship accidentally met mth the Co/nf^ 
joined the following pungent Reply : — 

What 's writ on me, cried Pitz, I never read ;— 
What's wrote by thee, de^kr Fitz, none wiU indeed. 
The case stands simply thus, then, lionest F^.— 
Thou and thine enemies arc fairiy quits, 
Or rather would be, if, for time to come, 
They luckily were deafy or thou wert dumh-^ 
But, to their pent, while scribblers add tlieir tangnm^ 
Hie waiter only can csci4)e their lungs. 

1_ Mr. Fitxgrrald ii in the hsUt of rtdting his own posliy 
note to English Baxds, p. 96. 



A ROM AUNT. 



L*anivbra e«t une espdce de livre, dont on n*a la que la premiere page, qnand on n*a va que sons pays. 
J'en ai fcuilleti un smcz grand nombre, que j'ai trouvdos Agalemcnt mauvaises. Cet examen ne m*a 
point dtd infrurtueuz. Je haivais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuptes divers, parmi 
lesquuls j'lti vdcu, ra'ont rAconcili6 avec ella. ^and je n'aarais tird d'autre Mmifice de mes voj- 
agcs que cclui-lk, je n'on regretterais ni les frais ni Um fatigues. L£ COSMOPOLITE. 



PREFACE. 



The following poem was written, for the most part, 
anudat the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
waa begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain 
and Portugal were composed fitMn the author^s obaer- 
▼ations in those coimtrics. Thus much it may be ne- 
cessary to «latc for the correctness of the descriptions. 
The scenes attoiiii)tcd to be sketched arc in Spain, 
Portugal, Epinis, Acamania, and Greece. There 
for the present the poem stops: its reception will 
determine whether the author may venture to ccmduct 
his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and 
Phrygia : these two cantos are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connexion to the piece ; which, however, 
makes no pretension to regularity. It has been sug- 
gested to me by ii-ionds, on whose opinions I sot a hign 
value, that in this fictitious character, " Childe HaroUt,** 
I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real 
personage : thia I beg leave, once for all| to diacliim 



Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpoM 1 
have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and tbwt 
merely local, there might be grounds for such a notaw; 
but in the main pomts, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is alnxMt superfluous to mention that the appelap 
tion « Childe,*' as "Childe Waters,*' "CluUe Chil> 
ders," etc., is used as more consonant with the old sinio- 
ture of versification which I have adopted. Tlie " Good 
Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was nf^ 
gested by " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Bor- 
der Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott 

With the difierent poems which have been publishail 
on Spanish sulgects, there may bo found some sh^ 
coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Penin* 
sula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exceptna 
of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poeia 
was written in the Levant 

The stanxa of S|)cnser, according to one of our most 
successfid poets, admits of every variety. Dr. BeaUie 
makes the following observation: "Not long ago I 
began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, ia 
which I propose to give fuU aoope to my iocUnaioni 



PREFACE TO CHILDI! HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



39 



rr droll or pathetic, descriptive or scnti- 
cr or satirical, as the faunuxir slriKCs ine ; 
ake DOC, the measure which 1 have adopted, 
2j of adl these kinds of composition.'*' — 
j in my opinion by such authority, and by 

of some in the hij^hest order of Italian 
1 make no apology for attempts at similar 

the fi)Uowing composition ; satisfied that, 
unsuccessful, their failure must be in the 
tiber than in the design sanctioned by the 
Viiosto, Thomson, and Bcattie. 

)mOX TO THE PREFACE. 

V waited till almost all our poiodical jour^ 
istributed their usual portion of criticism. 
i» of the generality of their criticisms I 
<: to object; it woidd ill become me to 
their very slight degree of censure, when 
ley had been less kind, they had been more 
turning, therefore, to all and each my best 
heir liberality, on one point alone shall I 
Ifscrvotion. Amongst the many objections 

to the very indifferent character of the 
u!iie" (whom, notwithstanding many hints 
ry, I still maintain to be a fictitious per- 
is been stated that, besides the anachron- 
ry unknighthi, as the times of the knights 
if love, honoiir, and so forth. Now, it so 
1 the pyoA old times, when 'Tamour du 
nps, Tamour antique" fkHnishcd, were the 
ite of all possible centuries. Those who 
Xas on this stibjcct, may consult St. Palaye, 

more particularly vol. ii. page 69. The 
rdry were no better kept than any other 
lever, and the songs of the Troubadours 
ire decent, and certainly were much less 
I U>ose of Ovid.— The **Cours d*amour 
'amour ou dc courtoisie et dc {:cntilesse,*' 
>re of love than of courtesy or gentleness. — 

m the same subject with St. Palaye. — 
ihrrr u!>*cction may be urg^ to that most 
crsonagc, Childe Harold, he was eo far 
^hily in his attributes — *' No waiter, but a 
w.'* a— By the bye, 1 fear that Sir Tristram 
celot wore no better than they should be, 
ry poetical personages and true knif^ts 
," though not "sans reproche." — If the 
instituti<>n of the " Garter** be not a fable, 
f that order have for several centuries borne 
f a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent 
t> much for chivalry. Burke need not have 
I its da>'s are over, though Marie Antoinette 
I chaste as most of those in whose honours 

shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

e days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 

iks (the most chaste and celebrated of an- 

odcm limes), few exceptions will be found 

meut, and I fear a little imrestigat'ion will 

t to regret those monstrooa mummeries of 

iges. 

re ^ ChiUe Harold** to live h'.s day, such 

: had been more agreeable, and certunly 

to have drawn an amiable character. It had 

I varnish over his faults, to make him do 

( Letters. S Tbt Kovers.— jfatt^sesMi. 



more and express less, but ho never was intended as an 
example, finthcr than to show that early fH'rvcn«ioii uf 
mind and morals leads to satiety of past plrusurcs and 
disappointment in new ones, and tliat even the lu-aulios 
of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, 
the most powerful of all excitements), are lost on a soul 
so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded 
with the poem, this character would have deepened as 
ho drew to the close ; for the outline which I once 
meant to fill up for him, was, with some exceptions, 
the sketch of a modem Tunon, perhaps a poetical 
Zduco. 



TO lANTHE. 

Not in those climes where I have late been straying 
Tho* beauty long hath there been matcfifoM deem*d , 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream*d. 
Hath aught like tlice, in truth or fancy secin*d : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied us they beam*d— 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could tb^ 
speak? 

Ah ! may*8t tliou ever be what now thou art. 
Nor unbcsoem the promise of thy spring. 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love*s image upon earth without his wing. 
And guileless beyond hope*s imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly taas all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri of the West!— *t is well for me 
My years already doubly numlier tliine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee. 
And safely view thy rii>cning beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne*er shall sec them in decline. 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed. 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
But mix'd with pangs to love*8 even loveliest liours de- 
creed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully hhy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzloy where it dwclli«. 
Glance o'er tliis page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for wliich my breast might vainly sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor (jiie>tion why 
To one so young, my strain I would <-oiiunrn<l. 
But bid me with my wreath one matcliU.ss lily hlend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse eiitwiii'.c! , 
And Ions as kinder eves a look ^\ya\\ i ast 
On Harold's page, lanthc's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first behcUl, forgotten lust : 
My days once nurabcr'd, sliould this honiogc pas* 
Attract thy fairy finjrers near tlie lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wasi, 
Such is the most my nu inory may desire ; 
Though more than hope can claim, could fn.n.U'ii" 
less require? 



40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 

PILGRIMAGE. 



A ROBKAUVT. 



CANTO L 



Oh, thou ! in Hellas deemM of heavenly birth. 
Muse ! formM or fabled at the minstrcFt will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hiD : 
Tct there I 've wanderM by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes! (tighM o'er Delplii's long-deserted shrine,* 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine, 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 

n. 

Whi\umc in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth. 
Who nc in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
Aod vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Bore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things ibund favour in lua sight 
Saye cmicubines and carnal companie. 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

III. 

Childe Harold was he bight : — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits mc not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
Rut one sad loscl soils a name for aye. 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor aU that heralds rake from coffin'd clay. 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Cnilde Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun. 
Disporting there like any other fly ; 
Nor dccm'd before his little day was done, 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his passM by. 
Worse than ailversity the Childe befell ; 
Ho felt the fulness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell. 
Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. 

V. 

For he tlu-oiigh sin's long labyrinth had run. 
Nor moilc atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sigliM to many, though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pdlution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
Anil spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
"im calm domeatjr oa^oe bi4 9fte Mgn'd to taste. 



VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his follow bacchanals would flee ; 
Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But pride oongeai'd the drop within his ee: 
Apart he staJk'd in joyless reverie. 
And from his native land resolv'd to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea , 
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd fiir won 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the A 
below. 

\TI. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile : 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Mcmastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den 
Now Paphian giris were known to sing and noA 
And monks might deem their time was come ^ 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy m 

MIL 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood, 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold'il 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul. 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow fk>w. 
Nor sought he fnend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er his grief mote be, which he couU not co 

IX. 
And none did love him — though to haO and bov 
He gather'd levellers from far and near, 
He know them flatterers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea, pone did love him — not his lemans dear— 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a fere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glarf 
And Mammon wms his way where seraphs might dc 

X. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot. 
Though parting from thai mother he did shun ; 
A suiter whom he loved, but saw her not 
Befbro his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he hail, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of sU 
Ye who have known what 't is to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope tc 

XL 
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large bUie eyes, fair locks, and snowy ] 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
And all that mote lo luxury invite. 
Without a sigh ho lefl, to cross the brute, 
And traverse Paynim shorei, %^i past etfth'i • 
(in 3b 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



41 



xn. 

The Hila were filled, and fair the fight windi blew, 
As ^bd to waft him (rom his natiTe hoaie ; 
And fitft the white rocks &ded from hit Tiew, 
And soon wen lost in drcumambieol feam: 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silenl thou^t, nor from his G^ cBd come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wqpt, 
knd to the reckless gales mmianly »"*^»'"g kept. 

xm. 

But when the mm was sinking in the sea, 
He seised h» harp, which heat times cooU string, 
And strike, albeit with imtaught mebdy, 
When deem*d he no strange ear was hstening: 
And now his fingers o*er it he did fling, 
And toned his fareweD in the dim twilight. 
While flew the Teasel on her snowy wing. 
And fleecing shores receded from his sight, 
Hhis to the elements he poiir>d his last «Good Night" 

1. 

'< Aoixu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o*er the waters blue ; 
llie nightpwinds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And duidcs the wi&d sea-mew. 
Ton sun that sets iq>on the sea 

WefbOowinhisffigt;; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native land— Good Night! 



A few short houn and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and ddes, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good haD, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wafl ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

** Come hither, hither, my little page ! 

Why dost thou weep and wul? 
Or dost thou dread the biOows* rage. 

Or tremble at the gale? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 

Our ship is swift and strong: 
Our fleetest fitlcon scarce can fty 

More merrily abng." 



* Let winds be shriO, let waves roll j^igh, 

I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind; 
For I have from my fether gone, 

A mother whom I love. 
And have no fiiend, save these alooei 

But Uiee— and one above. 

11 



* My fether bless'd me fervently, 

Tet did not mudi complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again. '~- 
*' Enough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless bosom had. 

Mine own would not be dry. 



** Come hither, hither, my staunch yeonaa. 

Why dost thou look so pale? 
Or dost thou dread a French foemaB? 

Or shiver at the gale ?**— 
* Deem*8t thou I tremble for my Ifle ? 

Sir Chikle, I'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a feithful cheek. 



7. 

< My spouse and boys dwell near thy hal, 

AJong the bordering lake, 
And when they on their father call. 

What answer shall she make?'— 
« Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood. 

Will laugh to flee away. 



8. 

<' For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not' grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 



9. 

** Aind now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan. 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance ray dog will whine in vain* 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again. 

He'd tear me where he stands. 



10. 

« With thee, my bark, FU swiftly go 

Athwart the feaming brine ; 
Nor care whaX land thou bear^st me to, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blu«s waves '. 

And when you fail my sight, 
Wekiome, ye deserts, and ye caves I 

My native land— Good Night l" 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIV. 

On, OD the Tessel flies, the land b gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepleet bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifkh, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra's mountain greets tfiem on their way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the de^ 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap. 
And steer 'twizt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 

XV. 

Oh! Christ! it is a goodly nght to see 
What Hearen hath done for this delicioiiB land ! 
What iiruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his lugh command. 
With treble vengeance will Ms hot shafts urge 
Qad's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold 7 
Her image floating on that noble tide. 
Which poetb vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
OfnughQr strength, since Albion was allied. 
And to the Lusians did her aid aflford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride. 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves die iword 
To save them from the wrath oTGaul's un^iaring lord. 

xvn. 

But vrfaoso entereth witlun this town, 
Tliat, sheemng far, celestial seems to be, 
IXsoonscdate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unrightly to strange ee ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily: 
mie dingy denizena are reared in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt. 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, 
unhurt. 

xvra. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet bom 'midst noblest scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men 7 
Lo I Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
Id variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen. 
To foDow half on which the eye dilates, 
1*hrough views more dazding unto mortal ken 
Tlian those whereof such things the bard relates. 
Who to the awe-struck world unlodi'd Eljrsimn's gates 7 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppbng convent crown'd. 
The cork-trees hoar that dothe the shaggy steep. 
The mountain-moos by scorching skies imbrown'd. 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep. 
The tender azure of the unrufllcd deep. 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bouf^ 
Hie torrenti that from cfiflTto valley leap. 
The vine on hi^, the wiBow branch bdow, 
lOi'd m one migb^ HeBS^ wib fwtod bentf ^ow. 



Tlien slowly climb the many-winding way. 
And frequent turn to linger as you go. 
From loftier rodu new bveliness suArey, 
And rest ye at '* our Lady's house of woe ;"' 
Where fiugal monks their little relics show. 
And sundry legends to the stranger teD : 
Here impious men have punished been, and k 
Deep in yon cave Hooorius long did dwell. 
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a beiL 



And here and there, as up the crags 3^00 sprin 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the paA 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering— 
These are memorials fi^l of murderous wrath 
For wheresoe'er the rimeking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's li 
S<Mne hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are ri 
Throughout this purple land, where law securesM 

xxn. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make rep 
But now the wild flowers round them only bre 
Tet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the prince's palace fair : 
There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthei 
Once form'd thy paradise, as not aware 
When wanton wealth her mightiest deeds hat! 
Meek peace vohiptuoos lures was ever vroot to i 

xxm. 

Here didst thou dwell, here sdiemes of pleasur 
Beneath yon mountun's eyer-bMuteous brow 
But now, as if a thing unblest by man. 
Thy frury dwelUng is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide * 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bcMom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunccs on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by time's ungentle tide 

XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convei 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto Britirii eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll. 
Whore blazon'd glare names known to chival 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll. 
Whereat the urchin points and laughs with all I 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon stvled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguil 
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here folly dosh'd to earth the victor's plume. 
And policy regain'd what arms had lost : 
For diiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloon 
Woe to the conquering, not the conquer'd ho; 
Sinoe btfllod triomph droupa on Lnritania'i ooa 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



43 



XXYL 

Aiyi ever snnce that martial tynod met, 
Bntanma sickens, C intra! afthyaame; 
And ()Uu in office at the mention fret, 
And (kin would blush, if bhnh tbey coold, ibr ihame. 
How viil posteri^ the deed pnidaim! 
WHiMt our own and feDow-nafiona sneer, 
Toriew these charapioiii cheated of their fame, 
Bt ibes in fight o^etthrown, yet ^cton here, 
WlmSoamber finger poiota through many a eoning 
year? 



So deem'd the Childe, aa o*er the mountaini he 
Did &ke hit way in aolitaiy guiae: 
Sffcet mia the aceoe, yet aoon he thought to flee, 
More rcfdess than the swallow in the sides: 
Tun^ here awhile he leamM to moralize, 
For aeditation fix'd at tnnes on lum ; 
And conscious reanon whisper'd to despise 
Hactrij youth, mispent in maddfut whim ; 
Botu he gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew dim. 

xxvni. 

To bofse! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
Aiceoeof peace, though soothing to his soul: 
Afiii he rouses from his moping fhs. 
Bat Kcka not now the harlot and the bowL 
Onwird he flics;, nor fiz'd as yet the goal 
Where bo shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
Asd o'er hira many changing scenes must roD 
Cr toil his thirst for Iravik can assuage, 
hke ihaH calm lus breast, or learn experience sage. 



Tct Mafra shall one moment claim delay,* 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen ; 
Aid church and court did mingle thdr array, 
Aad mass and rerd were alternate seen ; 
Lorifiiags and frecrcs — iU-sorted fry I ween ! 
Bat here the Babylonian whore hath biult 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
lUt men forget the bbod which she hath spilt, 
^ bow the knee to pomp that lores to varnish guilt. 



O'er Tiles that teem with fiuiu, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such h^ls upheld a fi«ebom race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye withjosraunce Alls, 
Childe HaroMI wends through many a pleasant place. 
Thoogh sluggards deem it W a foolish chase. 
And marrel men should quit their easy chair. 
The toUsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
^hfe, that bloated ease can nerer hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to new the hills at length recede, 
Aad, less luxuriant, smoother rales extend : 
iBBMue horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far u the eye discerns, withouten end, 
^pvo's realms ^pear whereon her shepherds tend 
^Wi, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows — 
^ow must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
^ «0 rat shield their an, or shure iol«ectioa*i 



XXXIL 

Where Lusitania and her sister meet. 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms dirido 7 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet. 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide / 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride 7 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall 7— ' 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that partHispania*s land from Gaul : 

xxxm. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguishcth the brook. 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest (bemcn flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.* 

XXXIV. 
But, ere the mingling bounds have far been passM, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast. 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
WhUome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drcst ; 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed , 

XXXV. 

Oh! lovely Spain! renownM, romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pclngio bore. 
When Cava*s traitor-sire first calTd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore ?^ 
Whore are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o^cr thy sons, rictorious to the gale. 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore 7 
Red gleamM the cross, and waned the crescent pale. 
While Afric*s echoes thrillM with Moorish matrons' waii 

XXXVI. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale 7 
Ah ! such, alas ! the heroes amplest fate ! 
When gramtc moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thino estate. 
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can voltune, pillar, pile, preserve thee great 7 
Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue. 
When flattery sleeps with thee, and history does tlive 
wTong 7 

XXXVII. 

Awidce ! ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advanco ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lanco, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flics, 
And speaks in thimder through yon engine's roai : 
In every peal she calls—" Awake ! arise !" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore. 
When her wu-mmg ww heard on Andalusia's shore f 



44 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVIII. 

Hani ! — heard you not thoM hoofs of dreadful note? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre amoCe ; 
Nor savod your brethren ere they sank bmieatb 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves 7 — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high : — ^from rock to rock 
Each voQey tcUs that thousands cease to breathe ; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands. 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands. 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it roUs, now fixM, and now anon 
Flailing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this room three potent nations meet. 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most tweet. 

XL. 

By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mizM embroidery. 
Their various aims that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for th*^ prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away. 
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts comUne to oflTer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 
Are met — as if at home they could not die- 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the fieki that each pretends to gain. 

XLH. 

There shaU they rot — ambition's honoured fools ! 
Yes, honour decks the turf that wre^>s their clay ! 
Vain sophistry ! m these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By mjrriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own. 
Save that wherein aU last they crumble bone by bone? 

XLHI. 
Oh, Albuera ! glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the pilgrim prickM his steed. 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief^ 
A flcene where mingling foes should boast and Ueed ! 
Peace to the pcrishM ! may the warrior's meed 
And fears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chjeflains lead. 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping thmig, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of tnuuient nog ! 



XLIV. 

Enough of battle's minioi^ ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fiune: 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth 't wore sad to thwart their noUe aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their countiykfoed 
And die, that living might have proved her shttns; 
Periah'd, perchance, in some domestic feud. 
Or in a narrower sphere wUd rapine's path pursoadL 

XLV. 

Full swifUy Harold wends his londy way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free— the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! 
Soon, soon riudl conquest's fiery foot intrude. 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'gainst fate to strive 
WhOTO desolation plants her famished brood 
Is vain, or Dion, Tyre might yet survive. 
And virtue vanquish all, and murder cease to thrive. 

XLVI. 

But an unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume^ 
Nor bleed these patriots vrith their country's woonfa. 
Not here war's clarion, but loves rebeck sounds ; 
Here folly still his votaries enthralls ; 
And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight raanii: 
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, 
Sdll to the last kind vice clings to the tott*ring walk. 

XLvn. 

Not so the rustic — ^with his trembling mate 
He luriES, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he shoiild riew his vineyard desolate. 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the toils of glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull dnun would sleep, and roan be ha{i^ /el 

xLvra. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer. 
His quick beQs wildly jingling on the way 7 
No ! as he speeds, he chaunts : — ** Viv4 el Sey !"* 
And checks his song to execrate Goduy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
. When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed bof 
And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate jof 

XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide-scatter'd hoof-morks dint tlto wounded gnniiMi; 
And, scathed by fire, the green sward^s darV.en'd vert 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch- flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest: 
StiU does he mark it with triumphant boast. 
And points to yonder diffs, which oft were won and kit. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



45 



»*« aknig the path you meet 

«p the hmdgjb of crinnoo hue, 

oa whom to shun and whom to greet:* 

mn that walks in pubfie Tiew 

jMhy this token tnie: 

aole, and sudden is the stroke ; 

Mid iht Gallic foeman me, 

ards, wrapt beneath the cloak, 

I 8abre*B ed^ or dear the canooo'i 

LI. 

t Morena^s dudcy height 
. the battery's iron load ; 
wrtal eye can compass nght, 
n-howitzer, the broken road, 
palisade, the fosse o'erfkyw'd, 
. bands, the nerer-Tscant watch, 
e in rocky durance stow'd, 
1 steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
jyramid, the erer-blazing match,** 

Ln. 

ieeds to come :— 4Mit he whose nod 
feebler despots from their sway, 
inseth ere he fifts the rod ; ■ 
aA deigneth to delay : 
legions sweep through these their way ; 
Rist own the scourger of the world. 
WW sad will be thy reckooing-day, 
Ganl^s Tukure, with his wings unfini'd, 
riewthy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd ! 

Lin. 

!y &&7 the young, the proud, the brave, 

bloated dneTs unwholesome reign? 

een subausaon and a grave? 

apme and the fall of Spain? 

I Pbwer that man adores ordain 

Dor heed the suppliant's appeal? 

iperate valour acts in vain 7 

gagt, and patriotic zeal, 

Idl, yoodi's fire, and manhood's heart of 

UV. 

be Spaniidi maid, aroused, 
e wiUow her unstrung guitar, 
s'd, the anlace hath CMwused, 
i song, and dared the deed of war? 
Mn once the semblance of a scar 
1 owlet's laram chill'd with dread, 
le colunnv'scattering bay'net jar, 
flai^, and o'er the yet warm dead 
lerva's stq> where Mars might quake 
id. 

LV. 

marvd when you hear her tale, 
I known her in her softer hour, 
lack eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
ht, livdy tones in lady's bower, 
; locks that f<Ml the painter's power, 
n, with more than female grace, 
I yoa deem that Saragoza't tower 
odle in danger's Gorgon face, 

naks, and lead in glory*! fearfiil ohaM. 



LVI. 

Her tover sinks— she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain— she fills his fatal post ; 
Her feDowt flee— she checks their base caieer ; 
The foe retiree— she heads the sallying host : 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall 7 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
FoiPd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ?>* 

Lvn. 

Tet are Spain's maids no race of Amazont., 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness c^ the dove. 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In sofbiess as in firmness for above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. 

Lvni. 

The seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touct* '* 
Her lips, whose Idsses pout to leave their nest. 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phosbus vroo'd in vain to spoil her cheek. 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous cliitch I 
Who round the north for paler dames would seek 7 
How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, and 
weak! * 

LIX. 
Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; 
Match me, yo harams of the land ! where mow 
1 strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ; 
Match me those houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest love should ride the wind. 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters— deign to know 
There your wise prophet's paradise we find. 
His black-eyed maids of heaven, angelically kind. 

LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus!** whom I now survey. 
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 
But soaring snow-dad through thy native sky. 
In the vrild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ! 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
y Would gladly woo thine echoes with his stnng, 
Though firom thy heists no more one muse wiU w«vp 
her wing. 

LXI. 
Oft have I dream'd of thee ! virhose glorious mun« 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinc^t lore r 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor nuse my voice, nor vainly dare to seat. 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In nlent joy to think at last I kwk on thee I 



46 



BYEON'lS WORKS. 



Lxn. 

Happier in this than ndghtieit barda hare bowy 
Whom fate to diatant homes confined ihair lot. 
Shall I unmoved behold the haOowM aceoa, 
Which others rave of, though they know it not? 
Though here no more ApoUo haimts his grot, 
And thou, the muses* seat, art now their grave^ 
Some gontle spirit stiU pervades the spot. 
Sighs m the gide, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon metodious wave. 

Lxin. 

Of thee hereafter. — Even amidst my strain 
I tum*d aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; 
Her fate, to every freebom bosom dear, 
And hailM thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but iirom thy holy haunt 
Ijet roe some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield roe one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaonL 

LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair mount ! when Greece was 

young. 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love, than Ajidalusia's muds, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peacefiil shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though glory 4y her gladee. 

LXV. 

Fair IS proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her weahh, her site of ancient days;** 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
CaDs forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While bo>nsh blood is mantling who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze, 
A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape. 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive sh^>e. 

LXVI. 

When Paphos fell by time — accursed time ! 
The queen who conquers all must 3rie1d to the»— 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea. 
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
And fixM her shrine within these walls of white : 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

Lxvn. 

From mom till night, from night till startled 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew. 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn. 
Devices quaint, and fi-olics ever new. 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adiea 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense bums. 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour bj 



Lxvm. 

The sabbath comes, a day of b l swed reit; 
What haBowa it upon this Chrwtian ebon? 
Lot it is sacred to a solemn feast: 
Hark! heard you not the fbreet-mooarch's roar' 
Crashing the lanM, he mauSk the apouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'ertfarown b^Math his hon 
The throng'd arena duJies with shouts tor nee 
YeOs the nuul crowd o'er entrails fresUy ton, 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even afiede tow 



The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! ri^t well thou know'st the day of pra 
Then thy spruce citizen, vrash'd artisan. 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse cfaa 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repti 
Till the tired jade the wheel ibrgets to htni, 
Provoking envious gibe firom each pedestrian chad 



Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboo'd &ir. 

Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 

Some Richraond-lull ascend, some scud to Wui 

And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 

Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason rAkjV* 

'T is to the worship of the solemn horn, 

Grasp'd m the holy hand of mystery, 

In whose dread name both jnon and maids are tm 

And consecrate the oath with draught and daaoi 
mom. 

LXXL 
AH have their fooleries— not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, riring o'er the dark-blue sea I 
Soon as the matin>bell prodaimeth nine, 
Thy saint-adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Yirou teased to shrive then fires 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; 
Then to the crowded circus forth/hey &re^ 

Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversioB ib 

Lxxn. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area dear'd. 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated roind; 
Long ere the frst loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant sp^e for luted wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but duefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguidi eye. 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the vrouad ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to i 
As moon-struck bards complain, by love's sad arcA 

OJCXIU. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues— on gallant steeds, 
With milk-white creet, gold iqnir, and light^peisi 

lance. 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds^ 
And lowly bending to the Usts advance ; 
Rich are their scarfi^ thdr diarg^v feady pnao 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout and laiHea' lovely ^kaet 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away. 
And an that kings cr chiefr e'er g^ tliair taila np 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 






iBooidfibeen and gaudy doak anray'd, 
ButiO fr-fcoC, the bght-limb'd MaUdora 
Staads in tba centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds; but not bdbre 
Hie froand, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
Lnl ai^ unseen shoidd hvk to thwart hb speed: 
ffis vsi't a daft, he fights aloof^ nor more 
Cunu adueve without the fiiand^ steed, 
Ahsl loooftooodemnMfor him to bear and bleed. 



lUee 



the 



lo! the 



The dca expands, and esqiectation mute 
Gapes roond the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the nu^ty brute, 
And, vildlj staring, qmms, with soun^ng foot, 
The and, nor bhndly rushes on his foe : 
Hoe, ihatf he poiitts his threatening front, to suit 
Hit tint attack, wide waving to and fro 
Rsupy tail; red rolls his eye*s dilated gbw. 



Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away. 
Away, thoa heedess boy ! prepare the ^pear : 
Now is thy bme, to perish, or display 
The ddfl that yet may check his mad career. 
VToh well-timed croupe the nimUe coursen veer; 
On ktum the buO, but not unscathed he goes ; 
StreaiBi from his flank the crimson torrent ck«r; 
HefieSfbewheds, distracted with his throes ; 
Dat fifljwB dsrt ; lanoe, lanoe ; loud belloinngs qpeak 
his 



Lxxvn. 

A|^ he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the w3d phi^png of the tortured horse ; 
Tboofh man and man's avenging anns assail, 
Viia are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
Oae gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
Aoodicr, hideous sight! unseamM appears, 
ffis goTf diest unveils life's panting source, 
Thos^ death-strudc still his feeble frame he rears, 
8li{{ering, bat stemming aD, his lord unharm'd he bears. 

LXXVllL 

FoiPd, Weeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
FoQ in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
%d wounds, and dinpng darts, and lances brast, 
Ani foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play. 
Shake the red doak, and poise Uie ready brand: 
Oooe ■ore throu^ all he bursts his thnndering way— 
Tain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Waps Us fierce eye— *t is past— he sinks upon the sandl 

LXXUL 

^^Mre his vast nedk just mingles with the spine, 
Sheadied in his form the deadly iieapon lies. 
He M ops b e star t s disd a inin g to dedine ; 
Soirir be &Ils, amidst trkmyhing cries, 
WidMit a groan, without a strugg^ dies. 
The deeorJad car appears — on Ugh 
1^ corse is piled sweet sight for vdgar e y e s 
Poor Bleeds that spum the rein, as swift as diy, 
H«l the daik bdk aloogy scarce seen in dashing 1^. 



47 



Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in bk)od betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain I 
Tliough now (me phah&nx'd host should meet dielbe^ 
Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow. 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence file's warm 
stream must flow. 

LXXXL 

But jealousy has fled ; his bars, hb bbhs. 
His withered sentinel, duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts. 
Which the stem dotard deem'd he could engage. 
Have paas'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Who late so fi^e as Spanish girls were seen 
(Ere war uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green. 
While on the gay dance shone night's lover-loving queea? 

Lxxxn. 

Oh 1 many a time, aiul oft, had Harold loved. 
Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved. 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And latdy had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
FuU from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some lutier o'er the flowers its bubbhng venom flings.'* 

Lxxxm. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind. 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
Not that philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awfiil eyes ; 
But passion raves herself to rest, or ffies ; 
And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb^ 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's palTd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting d 



LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
But view'd them not wkh misanthrofnc hate : 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the seng 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his (ate 7 
Nou^t that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demcn's sway. 
And as in beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth his impremeditated lay. 
To charms as lair as those that soothed his hapineroay. 



TO xirflz, 



L 



Nat, smile not at my sullen brow, 
Alas! I cannot smile again ; 

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
Should'st weep, and haply weep in 



48 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



2. 

And do0t thou aak, what secret woe 

I bear, corroding joy, and youth? 
4nd wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe? 

S. 
It is not lore, it is not hate. 

Nor k^ ambition's honours kist, 
That bkls me bathe my present state. 

And 4y from all I prised the most ; 

4. 
It b that weariness tdiich springs 

From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
To me no pleasure beauty brings ; 

TUne eyes have scarce a charm for me. 

6. 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fobled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 

Hiat will not lock beyond the tomb, 
Btik cannot hope finr rest before. 

6. 
What exile from himself can flee 7 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

Tlie blight of life— the demon thought. 

7. 
Tet others rapt in pleasure seem, 

And taste of all that I forsake ; 
(Ni! may they still of transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 

8. 
Through many a dime 'tis mine to go, 

With many a retrospection curst ; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I 'v<t known the worst. 

9. 
What is that worst? Nay, do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear : 
Smile on — ^nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the hell that's there. 

LXXXV. 

A<fieu, fiur Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood I 
Wlien all were changing thou alone wert true. 
Tint to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude. 
Some nativo Mood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : ** 
Here all were noble, save nobility ; 
Ncoe hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen chivalry! 

LXXXVL 

Such be the sons of Spain, and, strange her fate ! 
'1 hey light for freedom who were never free ; 
A kingless people for a nerveless state. 
Her vassals combat when their chicfUins flee. 
True to the veriest slave of treachery ; 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life. 
Pride points the path that leads to liberty ; 
Back to I he struggle, baffled in the strife. 
War war is still the cry, ** war even to the knife !" >* 



Lxxxvn. 

Ye, who would more of Spun and Spaniards kno* 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bk>odiest strife: 
Whate'er keen vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life: 
fVom flaaldng scimitar to secret knife. 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need- 
So may he guard the sister and the wife. 
So may be make each curst oppressor bleed, 
So may such foes deserve the most remorselev deed. 

Lxxxym. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead 1 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plam ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain. 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw. 
Let their Ueach'd bones, and blood's unbleachingitun 
Long mark the battle-fieki with hideous awe: 
Thus on^ may our sons conceive the scenes we law I 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work ■ done, 
IVesh legions pour adown the Pyrenees ; 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
FaU'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she ftsM 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
Strange retribution ! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustam'd, 
While o'er the parent clime prowls murder unrortnia'iL 

XC. 

Not aD the blood at Talavera shed. 
Not all the marvels of Baroesa's fight. 
Not Albuera, lavish of the dead. 
Have won for Spain her well-aaserted right 
When shall her olive-branch be fr«e fh>m bfight? 
When shall she breathe her from the blushing tdT 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night. 
Ere the fVank robber turn him from his spoil. 
And freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soi ! 

XCL 

And thou, my fiiend !>*— ainoe imavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the 
Had the sword laid thee with thermighty low, 
Pride might forbid ^n fiiendship to complain: 
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain. 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted dain, 
While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! 
What hadst thou done to sink so peaceably to rest? 

xcn. 

Oh ! known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever k>st. 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And mom in secret shall renew the tear 
Of consciousness awaking to her woes. 
And fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier. 
Tin my frail frame return to whence it rose. 
And moom'd and mourner lie united in repose. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



49 



xcm. 

) fftU of HarakTf pflgrimage : 
Inn may further aeek to know, 



tidngi in a future page, 
hjmtdk now may acribble moe. 
nodi? ileni critic! say not to: 
and ye diaD hear what he behold 
ida, where he was doomM to go: 
I oontain the monuments of EAd^ 
ind Grecian arts by barbarous hands were 
H*d. 



CANTO IL 



i»-eyed maid of heaTen! — but thou, alas! 

r yet one mortal song mspire — 

r wisdom! here thy temple was, 

i{nte of war and wasting fire, * 

, that bade thy worship to expire : 

dan sted, and flame, and ages slow, 

d sceptre- and dominion dire 

10 nerer felt the sacred glow 

is of thee and diine on poIishM breasts 

tow.« 

n. 

'days! august Athena ! where, 

tdiy men of might? thy grand in soul 7 

mering thro* the dream of things diat were: 

e race that led to glory's goal, 

, and passed away — is this the iHtole 7 

ay's tale, the wonder of an hour7 

s's weapon and the sophist's stole 

; in Tain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 

oust cf years, gray flits the shade of power. 

morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
t molest not yon defenceless um ; 
is spoi^— a nation's sepulchre ! 
gods, whose shrines no longer bom. 
must yield — religions take their turn : 
e's — ^'t b Mahomet's — and other creeds 
rith odier years, tiU man shall learn 
incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
doubt and death, whose hope is built on 
Is. 

IV. 

he earth, he lifU his eye to heaven^ 
loogli, unhappy thing ! to know 
b this a boon so kindly given, 
^ thou wouldst be again, and go, 
r'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
10 more, bat mingled with the skies? 
MW dream on future joy and woe? 
i weigh yon dost before it flies : 
Bsaithmore than thousand homilies. 
2 12 



V. 

Or burst the vanish'd heroes lofty mound ; 
Far on the solitaiy shore he sleeps : ' 
He ieO, and &lling nations moum'd around: 
But DOW not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
Nor warlike worshi(^>er his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appeaHd, as records tell. 
. flemove yon skull firom out the scatter'd heaps: 
Is that a temple where a god may dwell 7 
Why ev'n the worm at Ust disdsins her shatter'd ceB 

VI. 
Look on Its brok^i arch, its niin'c wall. 
Its chambers desdate, and portals foul : 
Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hde, 
The gay recess of wisdcHn and of wit. 
And passion's host, that never brook'd control : 
Can all, samt, sage, or sophist ever writ. 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 

vn. 

Well didst ihaa speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
'* All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink fitm what we camiot shun? 
Each has his psng, but feeble sufierers groan 
With brain-bom dreams of evil all their own. 
Purme what chance or fate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But silence spreads the couch of ever- welcome rest* 

vra. 

Tet if^ as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beymid that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours light I 
To hear each voice we feaHd to hear no more f 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught Um 
right! 

IX. 
Hiere, thou ! — whose love and life together fled. 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can! deem thee dead. 
When busy memory flashes on my brain 7 
Well — ^I will dream that we may meet again. 
And woo the virion to my vacant breast: 
If aught of young reroetabrance then remain. 
Be as it may futurity's behest. 
For me 't were bliss enough to 'uiow thy spirit blest ! 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone. 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Satiun ! was thy fav'rile throne :* 
Ifi^tiest of many such! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling place. 
It may not be : nor ev*n can fanc>''s eye 
Restore what time hath labour*d to deface. 
Tet these proud pillars claim no passmg sigh- 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols b*. 



50 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XL 

But who, of aO the plunderers of jon fime 
On high, where Pallu linger'd, loth to flee, 
The latest rehc of her ancient reign ; 
Tlie last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? 
Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
Thy freebom men should spare what once was free ; 
Tet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o*er the long-reluctant brine.* 

xn. 

But most the modem Pict*s ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared:* 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
AS ue wturae head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Tet felt some portion of their mother's pains,* 
And never knew, till then, the weight of despots' chains. 

xm. 

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom vrrung, 
Tell not the deed to bhishing Europe's eara ; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
Tes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears. 
Tore down tnose remnants with a harpy's hand. 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 

XIV. 
Where was thine egis, Pallas I that appaQ'd 
Stem Alaric and havoc on their way?" 
Where Peleus' son? whom heU m vain enthraU'd, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day. 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more. 
To scare a second robber from his prey? 
Idly he wandeHd on the Stygian shore. 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 

XV. 

Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee. 
Nor feehi as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defiiced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
By British hands, whidi it had best behoved 
To guard those rdics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 

And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes ob- 
horr'd! 

XVI. 
But where is Harold? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
little reck'd he of all that men regret; 
No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Kie the cold stranger p^s'd to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 

Aadiefl witnow a ligh the land of war and crimes. 



xvn. 

He that has saiPd upon the dark-Uae 
Has view'd at times, I we«i, a full fiur sight ; 
When the fireshVeeze is fair as breeze^nay be^ 
The white sail set, the gallant fiigote tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the rig^ 
The glorious main expanding o'er die bow. 
The convoy spread like wild swans in tfadr S^ 
The dullest sailer wearing bravdy now, 
So gaily curl the waves before each daidiing prov. 

xvm. 

And oh, the little warlike world within! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted cont^y,' 
The hoarse command, the busy huranung din. 
When, at a word, the tops are manifd on hi^: 
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering ay ! 
Wlule through the seaman's hand the tackle ^idfli 
Or school-boy midshipman, that, standing by. 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides. 
And well the 'docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 



White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on die watch the staid lieutenant waDa: 
Look on that part which sacred doth remam 
For the lane chiefUin, who majestic stalks 
Silent and fear'd by all — ^not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he woukl preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and fame: but Britons rarely swerve 
From law, however stem, which tends their strengik i 
nerve. 



Blow ! swifUy bbw, thou keel-oonpelling gale! 
TiU the brood sun withdraws his lessening ray; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slackmsail, 
That lag^ng barks may make thdr lazy way. 
Ah! grievance sore, and Ustless dull dday. 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeiel 
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, 
Thuskntoing pensive on the willing seas, 
The flapping sail haul'ddown to halt for k^ HkedNi> 



The inoon k up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve I 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves eipei^» 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids bcfieve: 
Such be our fate when we return to land I 
Meantime some rude Arion's resdess hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that saikirs bve; 
A circle there of merry bstenos stand. 
Or to some well-known measure feady mov* 
Hioughdess, as if on shore they still were free to to 

xxn. 

TTuough Calpe's straits survey the steepy ttat^ 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze! 
Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dvakj Bloor 
Alike beheld beneath pole Hecate's blue : 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disdonng rode, and slope, and fcnrest brown. 
Distinct, thou^ darkening with her waning phe0< 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows Ct^mtk, 
From mountain-cliff to coast dwownding Maibred0<* 



CmLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



51 



Til nigfat, when metfitatioo bidfwftel 
We ooce have lofred, thoofh love is at ta «Bd: 
The besit, looe mourner of its baffled nel, 
ThcN^ friendess now, w3l dreun it had a frieiid. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
Wliea youth itsdf surrirea jouag lore and joj 7 
Aks! wfaeo mingling ooids fcvfet to blend, 
Death hilfa but little left hhn to destroj! * 
Ah !ltt{ipf years! oaoemorewfaowoaldnoCbeaboy? 



Thos ben£ng o^er the veasePs laving 
To gue on Iran's waTo-reflected q>bere ; 
The lod forgets her schemea of hope and pride, 
And fiei imconsoious o'er each badcward year. 
NoM tre so desolate but sometlung dear. 
Dearer than sett^ po ssesses or possessed 
A (hcofht, and daima the homage of a tear ; 
A iiibjng pang ! of whidt the weary breast 
Would KiD, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 



To St on rocks, to muse o^er flood and fU, 
To ibiriy trace the ibresl's shady scene. 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwdl, 
And BtorUl foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; 
To cfimb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the .wild flock that never needs a foU ; 
Akne o'er steeps and foaming AlOs to lean ; 
Thii it not soGtude ; 't is but to hold 
CoBTCfse with Nature's charms, and Tiew her stores 
osroU'd. 



But Udst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to poasess. 
And roam along, the world's tired denisen, 
Widi Done who bless us, none whom we can bleas 
Mbiooi of splendoiir shrinking from dbtress I 
Xoae that, with kindred coosdousness endued. 
If «c were not, wouU seem to smile the less 
or d that flattei'd, foDow'd, sought, and sued ; 
"^iBlobeakiDe; this, thb is solitude ! 



More Ueit the fife of godly eremite, 
Such as on kyvdy Athos may be seen, 
Watcfamg at ere upon the gtant heigjht, 
^^U Woks o'er wavea so tune, sloes so serene, 
That he who there at audi an hour hath been 
WiQ wiitaa linger on that haUow'd spot ; 
Then riowly teer Inm flxwn the 'witdiing scene, 
^b fixth one wish that audi had been his lot, 
TbtD turn to hate a world he had aimoat IbrgoC 

ZXYIIL 

Ptn we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace bdund ; 
IVawetbecahn, the gale, the change, the tack, 
^ eadi wdMmown caprice of wave and wind ; 
^ we the joys and sonrowa aailora find, 
Coi^M B their winged aea-prt dtadd ; 
l^ftd, the ftir, the eontrary, the kind, 
^ tneaes rise and fidi and biBows sweB, 
^qsMBie jowd— m i o,landl aadaJlisweB. 



But not in silence pass Calypso's ides,** 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles. 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
And o'er her difi*8 a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stem Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen dou^ 
sigh'd. 



Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign hdds her dangerous throne. 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loydess heart, it would be thine: 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine. 
Nor ask so dear a breast to fed one pang for mine. 



Unis Harold deem'd, as on that lady's ere 
He kx^'d, and met its beam without a thought| 
Sare admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept doof^ albeit not far remote. 
Who knew his votary often lost and cau^ii, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more. 
And ne*er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore. 
Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o^er. 

XXXIL 

Fair Florence found, in sooth writh some ams^ 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe. 
Their hope, their doom, thdr pumshment, their taw ^ 
An that gay beauty firom her bondsmen daiaH : 
And mud) she Dnarvdi'd thai a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor ieign'd at least, the oft-toU flames. 

Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rare^ apfSf 
dames. 

XXXUI. 
Little knew she that seeming marble-heart, 

' Now mask'd in silence or writhhdd by pride. 
Was not unskilful in the spdier's art, 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had tum'd aside. 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Hardd on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doated on those eyes so blue. 

Yet never wodd he join the lover's whinmg craw. 

XXXIV. 
Not mudi he kens, I ween, of woman's breast. 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd I 
Do proper homage to thine idd's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she wiD despise 
Thee and thy suit, though tdd in moving tropea ; 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk confidence still best with women copes ; 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon pasdon crowns fkm 
hopes. 



63 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"t'tM an old leason ; time approves it true, 
And thoK wiio know it best, deplore it inoet; 
When all ii won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly trorth the cost: 
Touch wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful passion ! thes«l 
U, kindly cruel, early hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
NoC to be cured when love itself fin-gets to pli 



XXXVI. 

Away I nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread. 
And many a varied shore to sail along. 
By pensive sadness, not by fiction, led— 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
Or e*er in new Utopias were read, 
To each man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that c<»rupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVII. 
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still. 
Though always changing, in her aspect mild ; 
From her bore bosom let me take my fill. 
Her never-wean*d, though not her favoured child. 
Oh! she is fairest in her features wild. 
Where notliing polish'd dares pdlute her path : 
To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though I have mark*d her when none other hath. 
And sought her more and more, and bved her best in 
wrath. 

xxxvni. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose. 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he, his name-sake, whose ofl-baffled foes 
Shruidc from his deeds of chivalrous emprise: 
Land of Albania!'* let me bend mine eyes 
Oc thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men I 
/he cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Tlvou^ many a cypress-grove within each ci^s ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sailed, and pass'd the barren q>of 
Where sad Penelope o'eiiook'd the wave ; 
And onward viewM the mount, not yet fi)rgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal 6re 7 
Could she not live who life eternal gave 7 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only heaven to which earth's children may aspire. 

XL. 
'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leiicadia's cape afar: 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fiUal Trafalgar ; '' 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Bom beneath some remote inglorious star) 
in themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
Itat loathed tns oravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial 
wight. 



XU. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
L«ucadia's faiwprojecting ro^ of woe, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love,'* 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no '•*^"«"*5*« gkiw: 
And as the stately vessel glided skm 
Beneath tbo shadow of that andent moiaM, 
He watch'd the bilkms' melancholy flow. 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he ii|as wool, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth hk paKdfiMb 

XLIL 

Mom dawns ; aiul with it stem Albania's hill% 
Dark Suh's r«>cks, and Pindos' inland peak. 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy riO% 
Array'd m many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disck)se the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolf^ the eagle whets his besk, 
Birds, beasts of prey, aiul wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the dosing jm 

xLm. 

Now HaroU felt himself at length alone. 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adien; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to v^w ; 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were &«; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet, 
Ther scene was savage, but the scene was new j 
This made the ceaseless toil of travd sweet. 
Beat back keen winter's bUst, and welcoaied s i i pwrt 
heat. 

XUV. • 
Here the red cross, for still the cross y% hers, 
Though sadly scoff'd at by the dreumeised, 
ForgeU that pride to pamper'd priesthood dssr, 
Churdmian and votary alike despised. 
Foul superstition! howsoe'er disguised. 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For vrhatsoever s>'mbol thou art prised, 
lliou sacerdotal gain,, but general loss ! 
Who from trae worship's gold can separate diy dm ' 

XLV. 

Amh r ada's gulf behokl, where once vras kMt 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king'* 
To doubdul conflict, certain shuightcr bring: 
Look where the second Cesar's trophies rase!** 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, witherisg: 
Imperial anardis, doubling human woes 1 
Goo! was thy globe ordain'd fer such to win andlDM 

XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged disae, 
Ev'n to the centre of lUyria's vales, 
Childe HaroU pass'd o'er many a mount sobiMb 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic takis; 
Tet in fiuned Attica such lovdy dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can feir Tempo boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus batf 
Though classic ground snd consecrated most. 
To match some spots that huk within thb kmeriagM^ 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



51 



XLVIL 

bleak Ftedna, Acherana's lake/' 

K primal dty of the land, 

nb <fid Us fiDther journejr take 

Ubaaia's chie^** whose dread commapd 

law ; fi>r with a bkxxiy hand 

a natioD, turbolent and hold : 

ad there some daring mountain-band 

I power, and from their rocky hpki 

ifianoe &r, nor yieUI, unlem to gokL*' 

XLvm. 

Zitza! ** from thy shady brow, 

n, but &Toiir'd spot oT holy groond ! 

we gaxe, around, abore, below, 

ibow tints, what magic diarms are ibund! 

7, forest, mountain, all abound, 

t does that harmonize the ^ole : 

the distant torrent's rushing sound 

re the volumed cataract doth roQ 

ise hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 

d. 



e pvfe that crowns yon tufted hill, 

rere it not for many a mountain ni^ 

kAj ranks, and Idflier still, 

fl ibKlf be deemM of dignity, 

'en^s white walls glisten fair on high : 

dis the caloyer,** nor rude is he, 

lid of his cheer ; the passer-by 

M stiO ; nor heedless wiU he flee 

, if he delight kind nature's sheen t» see. 

L. 

b sidtriest season let him rest, 
he green boieath those aged trees; 
ds of gentlest wing will ikn his breast, 
iven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
I is &r beneath — oh ! let him seize 
mm while he can ; the scorching ray 
v€th not, impregnate with disease : 
hb length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
Bitired, the mom, the noon, the eve away. 

U. 

id huge, enlargmg on the sight, 

volcanic amplutheatre,** 

's Alps extend from left to right : 

a firing ralltfy seems to stir ; 

ay, trees wave, streams flow, the mountaiy fir 

shore : behold black Acheron ! *' 

Hwerated to the sepulchre. 

' this be beU I k>ok upon, 

ed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 

w! 

Ln. 

lowers pollute the lovely view ; 

I Yamna, though not remote, 

die screen of hills ! here men are few, 

le hamlet, rare the kmely cot; 

ing down each precipice, the goat 

I : and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 

I shepherd in his white capote*^ 

I Us boyish form along the rock, 

te awaits the tempest's ahort4iTed ihoek. 



Lm. 

Oh ! where, Dodona! is thine aged grore. 
Prophetic fount, and oracle dirine ? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove 7 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine 7 
All, aQ forgotten— «nd shall man repine 
That his frai) bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, tod ! the &te of gods may well be thine : 
Wouldst thou sunrive the marble or the oak 7 
When nations, tongues, and workls must sink beaealh 
the stroke 1 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
THred o£ up-gazipg still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as nnooth a vale 
As ever spring yclad in grassy dye : 
Even on a plain no humble beauties lie. 
Where some bold river breaks the fong expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance. 

Or vrith the moon-beams deep in midnight's so<«ni 
trance. 

LV. 
The sun had sunk behhid vast Tomerit,*^ 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; * 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warify, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior>men 

Swelling the breeze that sigh'd akmg the length'ning glen 

LVL 

He pass'd the sacred haram's silent tower, 
And, underneath the wide o'erarcbing gate, 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of powei , 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
Wlule busy preparations shock the court. 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons <rai j 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 

LVII. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store 
Circled the wide-extending court below : 
Above, strange groups adom'd the corridor ; 
And oft-times through the Area's echoing JkXX 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his sttcJ L«v«y ' 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, auJ tho IAm i. 
Here mingled in their many-hued arra/. 
While the deep war-drum's sound anm kijced the dose 
of day. 

Lvra. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his ki»<M, 
With shawl-girt head and omamcined gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, I'air to see ; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Mocedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of teiror on, 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, sup[>Ie Gksek , 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilaied son ; 
The bearded Turic that rarely deigns to speak. 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 



54 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ux. 

Are nuxM coupicuous : tonic reclinr in grouna. 
Scanning the motley fcenc that varic* round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some thai play, are found; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark I from the moeque the nightly solemn aound. 
The Muezza*s call doth shake the minaret, 
*^hflra is no god but God!— to prayer— lo! God if freatl" 

LX. 
Just at this season Ramazani^s fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain: 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was buRtle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; 
The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the nungling din, 
Ai page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI. 
Here woman's voice is never heard : apart. 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to more, 
She yields to one her person and her heart. 
Tamed to her cage, nor fe^ a wish to rove: 
For, not unhappy in her master's bve. 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares ! aQ other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bean, 
Who never quits the breast no meaner paMOO sharei. 

LXU. 
In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre roee, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness 6ing, 
And soft volupbuHis couches breathed repoM, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes ; 
Tet in his I'uieaments ye cannot trace. 
While gentleness her milder radiance throwt 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with diapraee. 

Lxm. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
HI suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age— so Hafiz hath arerr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and ho sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Roth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
In ijloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
TiA quickly wearied with that spacious scat 
Of wealth and wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were tweet ; 
But peace abhorreth artificial joyi, 
An4 pleasure, leagued with pomp, the seit of both 
dettroyi. 



LXV. 
Fierce are Albania's children, jtt they ladi 
Not virtues, were thoee virtues more mature. 
W^hero is the foe that ever saw their back 7 
Who can so well the toil of war endure 7 
Their native fastnesses not more tecur* 
Than they in doubtful time of troubloos need 
Their wrath how deadly I but their fi i e iid t h i | 
W^hen gratitude or valour bids them bleed, 
UnAiaaen rushing en where'er their 



LXVL 

Childe Harold saw them in their 
Thronging to war in splendour and ^,.-^ — , 
And after view'd them, when, within their 
Himtelf awhile the victim of distrett ; 
That laddening hour when bad men boC&er prat: 
But these did shelter him beneath their rool^ 
When lets barbarians would have cfaeer'd hkm }mi, 
And feUcw-countr>'nien have stood aloof ^ 
In aught that tries the heart how few wifhsHndfl» prof. 

LX\1I. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove lut biik 
Full on the coast of Suli*s shaggy there. 
When an around was deeolate and dark ; 
To land was perikxis, to lojoum more ; 
Tet for a while the mariners forbore, 
Dubiout to trust where treachery might hvk: 
At length they ventured forth, thou^ doubting un 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Tmk 
Might once agus renew their ancient butcher-iNifci 

Lxvm. 

Vain fear! the Suliotee stretch'd the wekoatB hui, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangeieut twHf^ 
Kinder than polith'd tlavet though not to bland. 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garmeottdaf^ 
And fin'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerfiil laa^ 
And tpread their fare ; though homely, all they id* 
Such conduct bean pMlanthropy's rire iUMup^ 
To rest the weary and to soothe the tad, 
Doih lemon happier men, and thamet at leatl Ihikii 

LXIX. 

It came to patt, tfiat when he did addrem 
Himtelf to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders half>way banr'd egrem, 
And wasted far and near wilk glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty bend 
To traverse Acamama't fixett wide, 
In war well teaton'd, and with laboura tann'd, 
Till he did greet white Acfadoos' tide, 
And from hit further bank JEtelia'a wetUa 



Where lone Utraikey formt itt cuchng cove, 
And weary wavet retire to gleam at rest. 
How brown the foliage of the green lufTt grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the cahn bay't fareait, 
At windi come lightly whispering fien the west, 
Kining, not ruffling, the Uue deep't tercne.— > 
Here Harold wat received a we l come guett. 
Nor did be patt unmoved the gentle toene, 
For many a joy couU he from night't aeft pretenee |li» 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



55 



IXXL 

inoodi Aon die m^t-fires bricbdy blued, 
it wu done, the red winedrcung&at,^ 
that mawarae bad there ygazed 
|Miig wondemeiit bed stared aghaat^ 
mgbt*a midmnat, atiUeiA hour waa pait, 
ivertvelaof the troop began; 
l&ar** his aabre from him cast, 
ndinf hand in hand, man linkM to man, 
irimnowthitirge, long danced the kirtled dan. 

Lxxn. 

tafold at a little distance stood 

v'd, but not displeased, the rerebie, 

d harmleaa mirth, howerer rude : 

, it was DO Tulgar eight to see 

jbaroua, yet thdr not i&decent, ^ee, 

the flames along their (aces g)eam*d, 

stivea nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 

i; wfld locks diat jo their girdles stream'd, 

s in concert they this lay half sung, half 

3eam»d:»« 

1. 

(7E0I ! Taraboorgi ! * thy larum afiur 
e to the Taliant, and proouse cf war ; 
s of the mountains arise at the note, 
niynan, and dark SuUote ! 



ia-more brave than a dark Suliote, 

iry eamese and his duiggy capote? 

IT and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 

ads to the plain like the stream from the rock. 

S. 
Rns of Chimari, who never frrgive 
iTa friend, bid an enemy live? 
guns so unemng such vengeance forego 7 
k is ao &b as the breast of a foe? 



a sends forth her inrindble race ; 
» they abandon die eave and the diase : 
scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
! is dieathed and the battle is 6*er. 



pirafies ot Pkrga that dwell by the waves, 
I the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
e on the beach the long galley and oar, 
! to his covert the captive on Aon, 



(he pleasures that riches iupply, 
'■ shal win what the feeble must buy ; 
the yoon« bride with her long-flowing bur, 
jr ainaid from her mother shall tear. 

7. 
lair &ce of the maid in her youth, 
nes shall lull me, her music shall sooAt; 
wini from the chamber her many-toned lyre, 
» a song on the foil of her sire. 



Remember the moment when Ptevisa fdl,'* 
The shrieks of the conquered, the conquerors' ydl ; 
The roofr that we fired, and the phmder we shared. 
The we^thy we slaugfater'd, the k>7ely we spared. 

9. 

I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear } 
He neither must Ipoow who woidd serve the vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the crescent ne'er savr 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

10. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 

Let the yellow-haii'd ' Giaours' view his horse-tail' 

with dread; 
When his Delhis* come dashing in blood o'er the banka 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

11. 

S^ctar! * unsheathe then our chieTs scimitar: 
Tambourgi ! thy 'lanmi gives promise of war. 
Te mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shan view us as victors, or view us no more ! 

Lxxm. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! ** 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth. 
And long-accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such tby sons who whilome did await. 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
In bleak Thermopyls's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb « 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow** 
lliou sat'st with Thrasybulus and lus train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which nam 
Dims the greoa beauties of thine Attic plain 7 
Not thirty tyrants now en&Mnce the chain. 
But every carie can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneaUi the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From lurth till death enslaved; in word, in dec d unmannM- 

LXXV. 

In all, save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire stUl sparkl'mg in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms bum*d anew 
With thy unquenched beam, kwt libeity ? 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they foncHy sigh. 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defiled from slavery's mournful we^ 



I Ysllow is the epithet lireo to the Runiaiw 
Slofidek. 

3 Hone-tails are the nwignia of a (Mu:ha. 

4 Honemen, answering to our forlora hop* 

5 flwovd-besrir. 



56 



BYRONS WORKS. 



LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondmen ! know ye not 
Who would bo free themselves must strike the bkiw? 
By their right arms the conquest must be witNi{^7 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
True, they may lay your proud dcspoiler* low, 
But not for you will freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Tliy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of thame. 

Lxxvn. 

The city won for Allah firmi the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; ** 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
Tlie prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, ** 
May wind their path of blood along the West; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated scnl, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless tofl. 

LXXVnL 

Yet mark their mirtlft— ere lenten days begm, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; 
Bui ere his sadccloth garb repentance wear. 
Some days of joyaunoe are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masldng ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry CamivaL 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment that thine, 
Oti Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine. 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strun !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng. 
All iclt the common joy they now must feign. 
Nor ofl I 've seen such sight nor heard sudi song. 
Is woo'd the eye, and thriU'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Ofl music changed, but never ceased her tone. 
And timely echoed back the measured oar. 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The queen of tides on high consenting shone. 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
nil sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glaacc<I many a light caique along tl^e foam. 
Danced on the shore the dau^ters of the IukI, 
Ne thought had roan or maud of rest or home, 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Cxchnnsed the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prebt, retum'd the pressure still : 
Oh love ! young k»ve ! bound in thy rosy band. 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
IlMM hours, wid oo^ theWi redeem life's yetn of ill! 



But, 'midst the throng in merry masqnende. 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Ev'n through the closest searmcnt half betray'd) 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they rooom in vain ; 
To such the gladness ol the gamesome cnnrd 
Is source of wayward thought and stem dtsdain: 
How do they loathe the laughter idly kxid. 
And kmg to change the robe of revel for the whnaA 



This must he feel, the true*bom son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-bom patriot still can boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace. 
The bondman's peace, who sighs for afl he lost. 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost. 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe theen 
Their Iwrth, their blood, and tKat sublime reeoid 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degeneratt herd 

LXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedemon's harcfihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again. 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to bmb. 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not tiH then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust ; and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate. 
Recall its virtoes back, and vanquish time and ftte 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe. 
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art then I 
Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow*' 
Proclaim thee nature's varied favourite now: 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth. 
Broke by the share of every rustic plou^ : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded wortii; 

LXXX VI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave;** 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Cdonna's clifi^ and gleams along the wave ; 
Save o'er some warrior's haU^ibrgotlea grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and ^gh ^Al^ 

Lxxxvn. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fltUii 
Thine oUve ripe as when Minerva snuled. 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress hvSS/i*t 
The freebom wanderer of thy mountain-air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
Still in lus beam Mendeli's mart>les glare ; 
Art^ gkMj, fireedom fail, but nature itiH is fair. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



57 



LXXXVIII. 
r we tread His haunted, holy ground; 
of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
rait realm of wonder spreada around, 
be Buse'a tales seem ^y told, 
eaie aches with gazing to behold 
es our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
tnd dale, each deepening glen and wold 
e power which crushM thy temples gone : 
Atheaa*B tower, but spares gray Marathon. 



LXSJOX. 

the soil, bat not the slare, the same ; 
d in all except its for^gn lord^ 
I alike its bounds and boundless fame 
e-fidd, where Persia's rictim horde 
'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
i mom to distant glory dear, 
irathoQ became a magic word ;'* 
ler'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 

XC. 
% Mede, his shafUess brokoi bow ; 
Greek, his red pursuing q>ear ; 
IS above, earth's, ocean's plain bek)w; 
the (root, destruction in the rear ! 

I the scene — ^what now remaineth h«re 7 
3ed trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
g free d om's smile and Asia's tear? 

i urn, the violated mound, 

iv cou rse r's hooi, rude strangw ! spurns 

ound. 

XCL 
e remnants of thy splendour past 
pvD&f pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 

II the voyager, with the Ionian blast, 
bright dime of battle and of song ; 
iD thine annals and immortal tongue 
thy iame the youth of many a shore ; 
the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
ages venerate and bards adore, 

nd the muse unveil their awful lore. 

XCIL 

ed bosom clings to wonted home, 

hat's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 

1 lonely hither let him roam, 

B eomf^acem on congenial earth. 

I no lightsome land of social mirth ; 

hom sadness sootheth may abide, 

ce regret the region of his birth, 

andering slow by Ddphi's sacred side, 

*cr the plains where Greek and Pernan died. 

xcm. 

approadi this conse<7ated land, 
I in peace along the magic waste : 
eiti rdics — let no busy hand 
M scenes, already how de&ced ! 



Not for such purpose were these altars placed : 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced. 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endeaHd ! 

XCIV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast socthed thine idlcsso with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife ibr fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise ; 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are led to please when none are left to love. 

xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one I 
Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me , 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being 7 thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome hero thy wanderer home. 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see— 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er retumM to find fresh cause to roami 

XCVI. 

Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past. 
And dings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
But time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
All thou couldst have of nunc, stem Death ! thou hast- 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew to fast, 
And grief with grief continuing stiil to bleuJ, 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 

xcvu. 

Then must I plunge again into the croind. 
And follow all that peace disdains to seek ? 
Where revel calUi, and laughter, %'ainly knid, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they dieer. 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

XCVIII. 
What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each loved one bloltrd from life's ^gc» 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastcner liunibly let me bow, 
O'er hearts divided, and o'er hopes destroy'il * 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow. 
Since time hath refl whatever my wnil ciyoy'o. 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd 



I 



13 



68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO III. 



•' Afin que octte appltcatinn voiw forrnt de pen«er ii autm 
«liow, il n'f a en vdritd <1p remcdc que neiui-la et Ic icnuw." 
Lettredii Roi de Pruss( a iJaltmbprt. Sip. 7, 1776. 



I. 

Il thy face like thy mother^s, my fair child! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw tliy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we pait. 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start. 
The waters heave aroimd mc ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart. 
Whither I know not ; but the hour^s gwie by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. 

n. 

Onee more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound bt neath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to tlicir roar ! 
•Swift bo their guidance, wheresoc'er it lead ! 
Though the straiiiM mast shouki quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
StiQ must I on ; for 1 am as a weed, 
Fkmg from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

III. 
Ib my youth's summer I did sing of one, 
The w^nder^g outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme then but begun. 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Beers the cloud onwards : in that tale I find 
TYm furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind. 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the lost sands of life, — ^where not a flower appears. 

IV. 
6mce my young days of passion — joy, or pain. 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
I would essav as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary stra'm, to this I c^ing ; 
So that it wean mc from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfijlncss around me — it shiill seem 
To me, thou^ to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 

V. 

He, who grown a^red in this world of woe, 
In deeds, not yeani, pierrin<r the depths of life, 
6v thai no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife. 
Cut to his heart a^ain witli the keen knifb 
0( vilent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone cavc^, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
bCill upimpnir'd, though (4d, in the soul's haunted cell. 



VI. 
'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that wo endo^' 
With form our fancy, gaining as we gi>t- 
The life we image, ev'n as I do now 
What am I ? Nothing ; but not so ar* i!xju, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I trnvi/s/ earth, 
Invisible but ga/ing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy biith^ 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feclingv*detn 

vn. 

Tet must I think less wildly : — I have thonght 
Too long and darkly, till my braui l)ccame, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth niy heart to tarae, 
My springs of life were poison'd. »T is too late! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the aamt 
In strength to bear what time cannot abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing late. 

VIU. 

Something too much of tliis : — ^but now 'tis pari, 
And the spoil closes with its silent seal. 
Long-absent Hakold re-appeara at last ; 
He of the brt^ast whirh fain no more would feel. 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not but ne'er hi:i 
Yet time, who changes all, had alter'd liim 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quafi'M too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd agaiB| 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground. 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vaio ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn with 
Which pined altiiough it s{iuke not, and grew 
Entering with every stop he took, through mau> • 

X. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again m fancied safety with his kind. 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheathea with an invulnerable mind. 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk*d behind j 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many stf.nii 
Unheeded, searching tlirough the crowd to hnd 
Fit speculation ! such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature** h*'*' 

XL 

But who can view the ripcn'd rose, nor sock 
To wear it ? who can curiously hf-hokl 
The smoothness and tlie sheen of lieauty's AM»f 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow ulrl 1 « 

Who can contemplate fame through rkwfe unw' 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, ruli'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's frmi 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



59 



xu. 

Iio knew himself the most unfit 
I herd with man ; with whom he held 
ommon \ uiUaiiglit to submit 
hta to o:hcr«, though his soul wai qiiellM 
>y his own thoughid ; still uncompeUM 
not jield dominion of his mind 
a^iainst whom his own rcbcUM ; 
u«h in desolation ; which could find 
1 itself, to breathe without mankind. 

xin. 

sc the mountains, there to him were friends; 

IIM the ocean, thereon was his home ; 

blue ^y and glowmg clime extends, 

e passion and the power to roam ; 

1, forest, cavern, brcaker^s foam, 

3 him compani'Hiship ; they spake 

langua^, dean,T than the tome 

id's tongue, which he would od forsake 

< pages, glossM by sunbeams on the lake. 

XIV. 

Chaldean, he could watch tlie stars, 
d poo;iled them witli l>cins!s bright 
wn beams ; and earth, and earth-bom jars, 
in frailtiis, were forgotten quite : 
have kept his spirit to that flight 
cen happy ; but this clay will sink 
immortal, envying it the light 
it mmmts, as if tu break the link 
us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
ink. 

XV. 

m*s dwellings he became a thing 
uvi worn, and stem and wearisome, 
IS a wild-bom falcon with dipt wing, 

< the boundless air alone were home : 
le hi» fit agun, which to overcome, 
ly the barrM-up blnl will heat 

t and beak against his wiry dome 
IoikI tiniie his plumu^^o, so the heat 
idtd soul would llirou"h his l)osom eat. 

XVI. 

d FTaroM wanders forth a;;ain, 
isht of ho|M? left, but with less of gloom ; 
knowlcd^^e that he Iivc4l in vain, 
Kas over on this si<lc the tomb, 
*! dnrifiair a smilinj:![nc<s a.«ffiuiic, 
ihou'^h *t were wild, — as on the pIundcrM 
rrrk 

iriners would madly moot their doom 
.nshts intemperate on tlie sinking deck,— 
>ire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

XVII. 

■w lliy freaif is on an empire's dust ! 
'piakc's spoil is prptilrhred below ! 
« niark'd with no colms.il bii?t ? 
nn Imjihicfl for triumphal show 7 
at the nioraPs truth tells simpler so, 
wmd Mas before, thus let it bo ;— 
ml rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
IS all the world has gainM by thee, 
od last of fickis ! king-making viCory 7 



xvm. 

And Harold stands upon this place <^ skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterioo ! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifls, transferring fame as fleet'uig too ! 
In " pride of place" ' here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain. 
Pierced by the shaf\ of banded nations through ; 
Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chuni. 

XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ; — but is earth more free 7 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty 7 
What ! shall reviving thraldom again be 
The patch*d-up idol of enlightened days 7 
Shall we, who stmck the lion down, shall we 
Pay the wdf homage 7 profTering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones 7 No ; jprove bdbre > e praise! 

XX. 

If not, o*er one fallen despot boost no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's fk>wcrs long rooted up before 
The trampler erf* her vineyards ; in vam years 
Of death, depopul:itioii, bondage, fears. 
Have all men borne, and broken by the accord 
Of rousod-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes the sword 
Such as Harmodius * drew on Athens' tyrani krd. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gathcr'd then 
Her beauty and her chivair}', and bright 
The lamps trhone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; ' 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knrB 

xxu. 

Did ye not hear it 7 — No ; 't was but the wuid, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be imconllneil , 
No slecf} till mom when youth and pleasure moet. 
To chase tlie glowing hours with flying feet— 
But, hark ! — that heav}' sound breaks in once niote 
As if the clouds its echo wouM rt'peat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier man Insfore ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's ojiening roai . 

XXIII. 

Within a window'd nirhe of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fnted chicflam ; !ie did heai 
That sound the first amidst tlic festival, 
And caught its tone with death's prophetic car ; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near. 
His heart more tmly knew that pesd too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. 
And roused the vengeance lilnod alone could queU 
He nish'd into the field, and, foremost tigniing, fell. 



60 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIV. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering team, and treinhliogs of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which I'Ut an hour ago 
BlushM at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partniffs, such as press 
The life from out youn;; hearti», and chokin" sighs 
Which ncVr might be reported ; who could guess 
If ever more Khmild meot tliOHc mutual eyes, 
Since upon nights so cweet such awful morn could rise 7 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring f<»r\%ard with impetuous speed. 
And swiAly fiinning in the ranks of war; 
And the livt-p thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere tiie morning star ; 
While throagM the citizens with terror dumb. 

Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! Tboy eome! 
they come!" 

XXVI. 
And wQd and high the " Camoron^s gathering" roM ! 
The war-note of I^)chicl, which Albyn*s hills 
Have heani, and heard, ti>o, have her Saxon (best- 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with tlie breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring wliich instils 
The stirring mcnnorv of a thousand years, 

And EranV,* Donald's * fame rings in each clansman^s 
cars! 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes' waves above them hor green leaves. 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as ihey pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over tlie unnMuming Iwave, — alas ! 
Ero evening to be trt>dden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall g<T*v 
In its next verdure, when this fiory mass 
Of living valoiu*, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high ho[)e, shall moulder cdd ?nd 
low. 

XXVIII. 
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in beauty's circle [)roudIy gay, 
Tlie midnisht brought the signal-sound uf strife. 
The mom tli«> marslialling in arms, — tlie day 
Battle's magnificcntly-sterH array ! 
The thunder-cloiulM close o'er it, which when rent, 
The earth is covcrM thick with other c'ay. 
Which her own rliy shall cover, hi;:ip'd ar.d pent, 
Bider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! 

XXIX. 

Hietr praise is hjrmn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
Yet oiiO I would select from that proiid throng. 
Partly bccr.use they blend inc widi his line, 
And partly that I difl his aire some wrong, 
And partly thiit bright names will hallow son» ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
Even where tlio thickest of war*s tempest kywcr^d, 
Thv moch'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
Howwd! 



XXX 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for tho 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stooil beneath the fresh grrrn trte, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field re\ive 
With fruits and fertile i)romi5e, and the »prin| 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds ujwn the wing, 
I tum'd from all she brought to those she could not brin^ 

XXXI. 

I tum'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The archangel's tmmp, not glory's, must av-ake 
Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of &in 
May for a moment sootht^ it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer daim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, inoiin 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
The hull drives on, though mast and «ai] be ton; 
The roof^tree sinks, but moiiklers on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements arr gone; 
The bars survive the captive they cnthr^. 
The day drags through though storms keep out ths •» 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live ui: 

XXXIII. 
Even as a broken nurror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and nKikt-s 
A thousand images of one tliat was, 
Tlie same, and still the more, the nii>re it lireakf 
And thus the heart will do which not fursakcs, 
Liring in shatter*d guise, and stiil, and cold, 
And liloo<lless, with its sleepless sorrow achM, 
Tet withers on till all without is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things arc un'oU 

XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair. 
Vitality of poison, — a quick n>ot 
Which feeds these deadly brjjichos ; for it vtt* 
As nothing did we die ; but life will suit 
Itself to sorrow's must detested fruit. 
Like to the apples on tlie Dead Sea's ' ^hon, 
All ashes to tlie tu^tc ; did man cunipo'e 
Existence by eigoyinent, and count u'cr 
Such hourt> 'gaiast }-ears of life, — say, would lie *^^ 
threc-iicoru 7 

XXXV. 

"Hie Psalmist numher'd out the vcars of nas: 
They are enu<i:;h ; and if tliy tale be tme. 
Tliou, who didst gruilge him ev'n that fleelinjK'^ 
More Uion enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues nMroni tliiv, and anew 
Their chikJren's lips shall echo thcni, and sa)'- 
*' H*irc, where the sword united nations dre«i 
Our eountrymen were warring on that day I" 
And this is much, and a<I which will doC pass avtf* 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



61 



paatMt, nor (he wont of men, 

<ifhctic«lly mixt 

the mightiest, and again 

Mith Ukefirmnen fist, 

oogt! hadst thou been betwixt. 

Kill been thine, or never been ; 

( thy rise as fall : thou seck^st 

issume the imperial nuen, 

« world, the thunderer of the scene! 

xxxvn. 

aptive of the earth art thou ! 
thee still, and thy wild name * 
bruited in men^s minds than now 
hing, save the jest of fame, 
once, thy vassal, and became 
hy fierceness, till thou wert 
If; nor less the same 
I kingdoms all inert, 
or a time whatever thou didst anert. 

XXX VUI. 

than man— in high or low, 
ions, flying from the field ; 
larchs* necks thy footstool, now 
ivaesi soldier taught to >ieU ; 
couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
y pettiest passion, nor, 
Ji men's spirits skilled, 
le own, nor curb tiic lust of war, 
ted fate will leave the lofUeat star. 

XXXIX. 

hath brook'd the turning tide 

fit innate phikMophy, 

km, coldness, or deep pride, 

rood to an eaemj. 

host of hatred stood hard by, 

ck thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 

i all-enduring eye ; — 

I her spoilM and fkvourite chiU, 

eneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

fortunes ; for in them 
thee on too far to show 
scorn which could contemn 
Mights ; 't was wise to feel, not so 
in thy lip and brow, 
ttruments thou werl to use 
-n^d unto thine overthrow : 
ess world to win or lose ; 
thee, and all such lot who choote. 

XLI. 

on a hcadkmgrock,' 
made to stand or fall alone, 
D had helpM to brave the shock ; 
ts were the steps which puved ihy 

iiy best weapon shone ; 
»*s son was thine, not then 
purine had been thrown) 
tea to mock at men ; 
Mrth were fiur loo wide a den.* 



XLII. 

But quiet to quick bononis w a hell. 
And t/iere hath been thy bane ; there is a firo 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Pre}rs upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest j a fever at the core, 
FVital to him who bears, to afl who ever bore. 

XLIII. 
Tliis makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By their coitagion ; conquerors and kings. 
Founders of sects and s>-stems, to whom add 
Sof^usts, bards, statesmen, all unquiet things, 
Wluch stir too stron^y the soul^s secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to thoao they ibol ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what atinga 
Are their*! I One breast kiid open were a adiool 
Which wouki unteach mankind the lust to ahine or ndt. 

XLIV. 
Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supinencss, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which nins to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
Which eats into itself, and rusts mgloriously. 

XLV. 
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find 
The lofliest peaks most wrapt in clouds and aiioir t 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind 
Must look down on the hate of those bek>w. 
Though high cdtove. the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread. 
Round him are icy rocks, and k)udly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! true wisdom's world wiU be 
Within its own creation, or in thine. 
Maternal nature ! for who teems like thee. 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine 7 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells. 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mount ain,vne| 
And chicfless castles breathing »tom farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greeply dwelii. 

xLvn. 

And there they stand, as stands a lof>y miihf. 
Worn, but unftooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenanilcss, save to the crannying wind. 
Or holding dark communion with tbo ckwd. 
There was a day when they wero young and proud, 
Banners on hioh, and battles passM below. 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud. 
And those which waved are shrodlew dust ere wtm 
And the Uaak battlements ■hall bear no fimv* Mow. 



«2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



xLvni. 

Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws *° conquerors should hare, 
But hi8tor>'*s purchased page to call them great? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and nngle fields, ^ 

What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! 
And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near aOied, . 

And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolourM Rhine beneath its rain ran. 

L. 

But thou, exulting and abounding river! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
'Hirough banks whose beauty would endure for ever. 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so^ 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like heaven ; and to seem such to me 
Rven now what wants thy stream? — that it should 
Lethe be. 

U. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks — 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
The tide washed down the blood of yesterday. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
GlaasM with its dancino light the sunny ray. 
But o'er the blackenM memory's blighting dream 
lliy waves would vainly roU, all sweeping as they seem. 

LII. 

rhus Harold inly said, and pass'd along. 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birdri to early song 
In glens which might have made oven exile dear ; 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere. 
And tranquil stcmnn«s which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was nol always absent from his face, 
Rut o^er it 'm such scenes would steal with transient 
timce. 

LIII. 

Nor was all k>ve shut from him, though Us days 
. <>f passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Lca{» kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thtis he felt. 
For there was sofl remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own wouki melty 
And in Us tenderer hour on thnt hii boMm dwelt. 



LIV. 

And he had leam'd to lov»— I kmw not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange €€ mood,- 
The helpless looks of blo<Mning in&ncy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued 
To change Uke this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the lupp'd affections have to grow, 

In him this glow'd wboi all beside had ceased to ^ 

LV. 
And there was one soft breast, as hath been sai 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though umn 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 

Well to that heart might his these absent greetingi p 

1. 

The castled crag of Drachenfels ** 

Frowns o'er the wide and winding RUm^ 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 

Between the banks which bear the rine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 

And fields which promise com and wine, 
And scattered cities crowning these. 

Whose far white walls along them shine. 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me ! 

2 
And peasant girls, with deep-Uno eyes, 

And hands which offer early flowers. 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lifl that walls of gray, 

And many a rock which steeply lours 
And noble arch in proud decay, 

Look o'er this vale of vintag^bowen ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

8. 
I send the lilies given to me ; 

Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be. 

But yet reject them nc^ as such ; 
For I have chcrish'd them as dear, 

Because they yet may meet thine eye. 
And guide thy soul to mine even here. 

When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know*8t them gather'J by the RUne, 
And ofier'd from my heart to thine ! 

4. 
The river nobly foams and fk>WB, 

The charm of this enchanted ground. 
And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round ; 
The haughtirst brt^axt its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor oouUi on earth a spot be found 

To Nature and to me so dear. 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Slill sweeten uMi* these bankief RbiBil 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



63 



LVI. 
tz, CO m rise (^gentle ground, 
■mall and limple pyranud, 
he flummit of the verdant mound ; 
I baae are heroes* ashes hid, 
's, — but let not that forbid 
Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
tears, gush*d from tlie rough aoldier't lid, 
and jet envying such a doom, 
ance, whose rights he batded to rescme. 

LVIL 

c, and glorious was his young career,— 
;rs were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
lay the stranger lingering here 
I gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
( Freedom's champion, one of those, 
number, who had not o'erstept 
r to chastise which she bestows 
^ wield her weapons ; he had kept 
s of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.'* 

LVUI. 

nbreitstein, ^' with her shatter'd wall, 
I the miner's blast, upon her height 
of what she was, when shell and ball 
I idly on her strength did light ; 
victory ! from whence the flight 
bes was watch'd along the plain : 

destroy'd what war could never blight, 
lose proud roofs bare to summer's raii^-> 

iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. 

UX. 

ee, fair Rhino ! How long delighted 
er fain would linger on his way ! 
scene alike where souls united 
ontemplati<Hi thus might stray ; 
the ccasdess vultures cease to prey 
idemniiig bos<Hns, it were here, 
lire, nor too sombre ncH* too gay, 
ot rude, awful yet not austere, 
ow earth as autumn to the year. 

LX. 

lec again ! a vain adieu ! 

be no farewell to scene like thine ; 

a culour'd by thy every hue j 

ctontly the eyes resign 

jfliM gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 

he thankful glance of parting praise ; 

ly spots may rise — more gluing shine, 

nte in one attaching maze 

fair, and so(\,— the glories of old dajrt* 

LXI. 

mtly grand, the fruitful bloom 
riprness, the white city's sheen, 

frtroam, the precipice's gloom, 
» rrrowth, and Gothic walls between, 
xrkfl ithapcd as they had turrets been 

of man's art ; and these withal 
ices happy as tlie scene, 
lie bounties here extend to all, 
g o*er thy banks, though empbet near 
alL 



Lxn. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
llio avalanche-4he thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals. 
Gather around these summits, as to show 
How earth may pierce to heavoi, yet leave vain bua 
below. 

Lxm. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot shoukl not be pass'd in vain,^ 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
May gase on gha^y trophies of the slain. 
Nor bhah for those who conquer'd on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombleas host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian coail 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each waaderin^ 

{^KMt. 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo vrith Cannoi's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twm names shall stand ; 
They were truo glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entali'd corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic claue. 

LXV. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
'T b the last remnant of the vrrock of years, 
And looks as with the wild bewildcr'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness ; and tliere it standi 
Making a marvel that it not decays. 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum,*^ hath strew'd her subject lands. 

LXVI. 

And there— oh ! sweet and sacred be the name !^ 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a daim 
Nearest to heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would craTe 
The life sho lived in ; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a buat. 
And held within their urn one mind, one naait, one 
dust.1* 

LXVU. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that mtist not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with ajusidecay. 
The enslavers tanA the enslaved, {heir death and binli. 
The high, the mountvn-majesty of worth 
Shoukl be, and shall, survivor of its woe. 
And from its inunortality k>ok forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, ** 
Imperishably para toyond all thinp bebw. 



64 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Lxvm. 

Jske Leinan woos me with its crystal &ce, 
The mirror wh«« the start and mountains view 
"Hie stillness of their aspect, in each trace 
Its clear depth jrields of their fair height and hue : 
JThere is too much of man here, to look through 
With a 6t mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
Cre nungling with the herd had pennM me in their ibid. 

LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 
'Midst a contentious workl, striving where none are 
itrong. 

LXX. 

There, m a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears. 
And colour things to come with hues of night ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
The boldest stoer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o*er eternity. 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
And love earth only for its earthly sake 7 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhcme,** 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake. 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ;— 
Is it not better thus our livM to wear, 
rhan join the crushing crowd, doomM to inflict or bear? 

LXXIL 
I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me. 
High mountains are a feelbig, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshy ch^in, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

IJUUII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
I kx>k upon the peopled desert past 
As on a pbica of af^y and strife. 
Where, for some sin, to sotow was I cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With ii fresh pinidti ; which I feci to spring. 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
Rpuming the clay-oold hoods which round our being 
ding. 



LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form. 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and wxnto, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I sec, less dazzling, but more warm 7 
The bodiless thought 7 the spirit of each spot. 
Of which, even now, I share at times the inuoortsl lot? 

LXXV. 

Ar6 not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them7 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these 7 and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only tum'd below. 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not 
glow? 

LXXVI. 

But tlus is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn. 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The dear air for a while — a passing guest. 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; U was a foolish quest. 
The which to gam and keep, he sacrificed all reM. 

LXXVU. 

Here the self>torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; yet he fas* 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavedy bne 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as thcj past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly aadlA 

Lxxvin. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame. 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it lecBi* 

LXXIX. 

7^ breathed itself to life in Julie, thU 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; 
Tliis hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every mom his fcvcr'd lip would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his wouU o***' 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breiA 
Flash'd the thrillM spirit's love-devouring heat; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more Uest, 
Than vulgar miodf may be vrith aH they wek poiM^ 



i 



CmLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



65 



LXXX. 

I one kwg war with selP'Soiight (bei, 
yy him setf-banishM ; for his mind 
■uspicion^a Muictuary, and chote 

1 cruel sacrifice, the kind, 

om he ni^ed with fiiry strange and blind, 
phreniied,— wherefore, who may know 7 

2 might be which skill could never find ; 
phrenzicd by disease or woe, 

pitch of all which wears a reasoning ahow. 

LXXXI. 

3 was inspired, and firom him came, 
i Pjrthian's mystic cave of yore, 
les which set the world in flame, 

, to bum till kingdoms were no more: 

this for France 7 which lay before 

le inborn tyranny of years 7 

1 trembling, to the yoke she bore, 

voice of him and his compeers, 

too much wrath which follows overgrown 

87 

LXXXII. 

I themselves a fearful monument ! 
of dd opinions — things which grew 
txn the birth of time : the veil they rent, 
>ehind it lay, all earth shall view. 

ith ill they also overthrew, 

t ruins, wherewith to rebuild 

ame foundation, and renew 

uid thrones, which the same hour re-fiUM, 

, because ambition was seli^will'd. 

Lxxxni. 

II not endure, nor be endured ! 

ave felt their strength, and made it felt. 
I have used it better, but, allured 
w vigour, sternly have they dealt 
rther ; pity ceased to melt 
Dce natural charities. But they, 
iression^s darkness caved had dwelt, 
nut eagles, nounsh'd with the day ; 
then, at times, if they mistodi their prey 7 

LXXXIV. 

wounds ever dosed without a scar 7 

bleed longest, and but heal to wear 

I disfigures it ; and they who war 

>vro hopes, and have been vanquished, bear 

t not submiiwion : in his lair 

on hdds liis breath, until the hour 

1 atone for years ; none need despair : 

comcth, and will come, — the power 

forgive— in ont we shall be slower. 

LXXXV. 

id Leroan ! thy contrasted lake, 

ild worki I dwelt in, is a thing 

lis tnc, with its stillness, to forsake 

iiblcd waters for a purer spring. 

■ail is as a noiseless wing 

) from distraction ; once I loved 

i*s roar, but thy soft murmuring 

set as if a sister's voice reproved, 

sm delighu should e'er have been to moved. 

14 



LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all betwera 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet dear, 
Mdlow'd and mingling, ytX distinctly seen. 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and, dravnng near. 
There breathes a living fingrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 
Or chiirps the grasshopper one good-night card more ; 

Lxxxvn. 

He is an evening reveUer, who makes 
His life and infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hiD ; 
But that is &ncy, for the starlight dews 
AD silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

Lxxxvni. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — ^'tis to be forgiven. 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state. 
And clum a kindred with you ; for ye are • 

A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence firom afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named thcmsdves 
a star. 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are stilU^ough not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep :— 
All heaven and earth are SRB : from the high host 
Of stars, to the luUM lake and mountaii>-coast. 
All is concenter'd in a life intense. 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

XC. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In sditude, where we are letuA alone ; 
A truth, which through our being then doth melt. 
And purifies frtvn self: it is a tone. 
The soul and source of music, which makes known' 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's sone, 
Binding all things with beauty ;—'t woirfd disarm 
The spectre Death, had ho substantial power to harm. 

XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergaziug mountains,*** and thus take 
A fit and unwallM temple, there to seek 
The spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
Unresjr'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-mn)Uings, Golh or Greek, 
With nature's reahns oi worship, earth and air. 
Nor fix oo food abodes to droumicribe thy pray* . 



• . 



66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



xcn. 

The iky it ehangcd ! — and such a change ! Oh night,** 
And storm, and darioaess, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your-strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak lo peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answen, through her nusty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her abud ! 

xcm. 

And this is in the night : — most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer \n thy fierce and far delight,—- 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shmes, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountdn-mirdi. 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

XCIV. 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
Heists which appear as lovers viho have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene. 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ; 
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
' Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Wluch blighted their life's bloom, and then departed ; 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — ^war within themselves to wage. 

xcv. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their pkiy, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band. 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His hghtnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation worii'd, 
1 here the hot shaft should blast whatever thovtn lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings I jre ! 
With night, and cU uds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 
Of Yrhai in me is sleepless,— if I rest. 
But where oC ye, oh tempests ! is the goal 7 
Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? 

xcvn. 

Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek. 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into ons word, 
And that one word were Ldghtning, I woukl speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
Wdh a most voioetoM thoiubt, shmthing it as > iwroid. 



xcym. 

The mom is up again, the dewy mom, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all blooov 
Laughing the clouds away with playftd soom, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb,— 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Lcman ! may 6nd rooa 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much that may give us pause, if ponder d fittinfUf. 

XCIX. 

Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-pbice of deep lore! 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thoii||tf , 
Thy trees take root in k>ve ; the snows above 
The very glaciers have his colours caught, 
And sunset into rose-hues at es them wrou^** 
By rays which sleep there V vingly : the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell h tre of love, vriio songiil 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 

Which stir and sting the soul with hope thai woos,tb» 
mocks. 

C. 
Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,— 
Undying k>ve's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the fal 
Is a pervading life to light,— so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor al<me 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath bbini, 
His -soft and summer breath, whose tender power 

Passes the strength of storms in their moet desdals hov 

CI. 

All thuigs are here of fdm; fiiom the blade pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the Aat 
Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore. 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, with tnmks aU hoar. 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it slooi 
Ofibring to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

cn. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds. 
And fairy-form'd and many-coloiir'd things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than wonb 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Feariess and full of life : the gush of springs, 
And fall of loAy fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, h«e extend. 
Mingling, and made by love, unto one migl^y end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here vrould leam that kftt 
And make his heart a spint ; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more. 
For this is love's recess, where vain men's woei^ 
And the world's waste, have driven him far flroo those 
For 't is his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may yn» 
With the immortal lights, in il^ eternity * 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



67 



CIV. 

for fitfkm chose Rouneaii this ipot, 

with afiections ; but he foand 

c^ne which passion must allot 

fs purified beiD^ ; 'twas the ground 

J love his P^che*B zone unbound, 

'd it with loreliness : 't is lone, 

rfiil, and deep, and hath a sound, 

and sight of sweetness j here the Rhone 

himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 

le. 

CV. 
and Femey ! ye have been the abodes" 
rfakh unto you bequeathed a name ; 
lo sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
erpetuity of fame : 
g^antic minds, and their steep aim 
fhke, on daring doubts to pile 
hich should call down thunder and the 
e 

, again assaird, if Heaven the while 
nan^s research could deign do more than 

CVI. 

IS fire and fickleness, a child, 
le in wffihes, but in mind 

^i«M>— g*y» ir*^«. *»««» «■ wild,— 
ard, philosopher combined ; 
ed himself among mankind, 
s of their talents : but his own 
oat in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
it listed, laying all things prone,— 
x»w a fool, smd now to shake a throne. 

cvn. 

leep and slow, exhausting thought, 
nrisdoro with each studious year, 

dwelt, with learning wrought, %. 

his weapon with an edge severe, 
olemn creed with solemn sneer : 

irony, — that master-spell, 

1 his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
him to the zealot's ready heD, 

s to all doubts so eloquently welL 

cvm. 

be with their ashes, — for by them, 

iie penalty is paid ; 

I to judge, — far less condemn ; 

jst come when such things shall be made 

aIl,~-or hope and dread allay'd 

oo one pillow, — in the dust, 
i much we are sure, must lie decay'd ; 

shall revive, as is our trust, 
i fergiren, or suffer what is just. 

CIX. 
uit man's works, again to read 
spread arouiul me, and suspend 
nrhich from my reveries I feed, 
a prolonging without end. 
above me to the white Alps tend, 
nerce them, and survey whate'er 
oitted, as my steps I bend 
It great and growing region, where 
ar embrace compeb the power of air. 



ex. 



Italia! too,— Italia! looking on thee, 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefe and sages, 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of eni|»res ; sliO, 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her AD, 
Fk>w8 firom the eternal source of Rome's imperial hiL 

CXI. 

Thus far I have proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to fed 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be,— and to steel 
Hie heart against itself; and to conceal. 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aug^t,— 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal,— 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought ; 
Is a stem task of soul : — ^No matter, — it is tau(^ 

cxn. 

And for Aese words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile,— 
The oolouhng of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I wouk) seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile^ 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — rraaember'd or forgot. 

cxin. 

I have not loved the world, nor the worki me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee,— 
Nor coin'd my check to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and itil 
could. 
Had I not filed ** my mind, which thus itself subdued. 

CXIV. 

I have not loved the worid, nor the world me,— 
But let us part fair foes ; 1 do believe 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will noC dn* 

oeive. 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : 1 would also deem 
O'er others' griefii that some sincerely grieve ; ** 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dreank 

cxv. 

My daughter ! with thy name this song begun— 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much rtall 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not,^but none 
Can be so wrapt in thcc ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend * 
Albeit my brow thou never shouUst behold. 
My voice shall with thy future visions Mend, 
And reach into thy heart,— when mine is eold,- 
A token and a tone, eren from thy father's nnMb 



68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXVI. 

To aid thy nuiMFa doTelopenMnt, — ^to watch 
Thj dawn of Ktde joys, — to nt and tee 
AloKMt tfiy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of ob(jects,-~wonder8 yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft chedc a parent's kiss, — 
This, it shouUi seem, was not reserved for roe ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet Mmcthing like to tins. 

CXVIL 
Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Shoukl be shut ^rom thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us, *t were the 

samc^ 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being, were an aim. 
And an attainment,-^all would be in vain,-— 
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. 

cxvm. 

The child of love, — though bom in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall be more temper^, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains whore I now respire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to mc! 



CANTO IV. 



Vuto ho Toscana, Ijombardia. Romagna, 
Uuol inonte che divide, e quel che aorra 
Italia, e ua mare e 1* altiu, che la bagna. 

ARIOSTO. Satira vL 



TO 

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. 

e(c. eCc etc 

Mt dear Hobhocse, 

Aptkr an interval of eight years between the com- 
position of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, 
Che conclusion of the poem is about to be wbnutted to 
the public In parting with so old a friend, it is not ex- 
traordinary that I should recur to one still older and 
better,— -to one who has beheld the birth and death of 
the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the 
social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than — 
though not ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe 
Harold, for any public favour reflected through the 
poem on the poet, — ^to one, whom I have known long, 
and dccoropanied far, whom I have found wakeful over 
roy sickness, and kind in my sorrow, glad in my pros- 
perity, and firm in my adversity, true in coimscl, and 
tnisiy in peril — to a fiieud often tried, and never found 
wammg; — to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur firom fiction to truth, and in dedi- 
waag to vou in its oomplete, or at least concluded 



state, a poetical work which is the longest, the mart 
thoughtful, and comprehensive of my compositions, 1 
wish to do honour to mj'self by the record cX maay 
years* intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, dT 
steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like oan 
to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of Hh 
cerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friend* 
ship, and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to 
relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, bea 
so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will ai 
to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to 
commemorate your good qualities, or rather the sd* 
vantages which I have derived from their exertion. 
Even the recurrence of the date of dns letter, the an- 
niversary of the most unfortunate day of my past ei- 
istence, but which cannot poison my future, while I 
retain the resource of your friendship, and of my ow» 
faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recol- 
lection for both, masmuch as it will remind us of thit 
my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regani, 
such as few men have experienced, and no one codd 
experience without thinking better of his species aid 
of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at vui- 
ous periods, the countries of diivalry, history, and 
fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy: aad 
what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few yean 
ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. Tbi 
poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompamed 
me from first to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardoo- 
able vanity which induces me to reflect with compla- 
cency on a composition which in some degree connecU 
me with the spot where it was produced, and the ob- 
jects it would fain describe ; and however unworthy il 
may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, 
however short it may fall of our distant conceptioQi 
and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect 
for virhat is venerable, and a feeling for what is glorious, 
it has*becn to me a source of pleasure in the produo- 
Uon, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I 
hardly suspected that events could have k:ft me for 
imaginary objects. 

With regiU'd to the conduct of the last canto, there 
will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of dw 
preceding, and thai little slightly, if at all, separated 
from the author speaking in his own person. The &ct 
is, that I had bcM^me weary of drawing a line which 
every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the 
Chinese in Goldsmith's " C itizeo of tho World,** whom 
nobody would believe to be a Cluneae, it was ia vasi 
that I asserted, and imagined, that I bad draws a ^ 
tinction between the author and die pilgrim ; and the 
very anxiety to preserve this diflermce, and (fiMf* 
pointmcnt at finding it unavailing, ao far crudiad toV 
efforts in the composition, that I determined to abafldhtf 
it altogether — and have done so. The opinions i^iich 
have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are s^ 
a matter of indifference \ the work is to depend od it' 
self^ and not on tlic writer ; and the author, who hat i^ 
resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, tran- 
sient or permanent, which is to arise from his littfary 
efforts, deserves the fiite of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my iato^ 
tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched 
upon the present state of Italian literature, \uA perbi|ii 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILQR|MAGE. 



70 



BYRONS WORKS. 



VI. 
Such u the rdhfe of oar jrouth md age^ 
The firft from hope, the Imin from vaeucy j 
And Uiii worn foeliof peopln mmaj a ptfo, 
And, maj be, thmt wUdi grovw biOMth mine eye: 
Tet thora are thinp wIiom ilraiif rnfi^ 
Outahinet our fuiy-laad ; inohape and hues 
More beantiTul than our fiAUstic sky, 
And the strange cooatellations which the muse 
O'er her wild univerae ia akiUid to diffuse : 

VIL 

I saw or dreamM of nuch, — ^but let them go— 
Tbey came like truth, and disappearM like dreams ; 
And whatsoever they were — arc now but so : 
I eould replace theni if I would, still teems 
My mind with many u form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought fur, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go— for waking reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII. 
I 're taught nie otltcr tonjrucs — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to IumI 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Tet was I bom where men are |it-oud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea? 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of bcin;: remembcrM in my line 
With my land^ti language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
IT my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growtli and blight, and dull oblivion bar 

X. 

My name from out the temfile where the dead 
Are honourM by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And l>e the Spartan*s epitaph on me— 
'* Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.** * 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reapM are of the tree 
I planted ; — they have torn mc, — and I bleed : 

I should have known what fruit would spring from such 
a seed. 

XI. 
The spouseless Adriatic nkjuma her lord : 
And, annual mamagc now no more rcnewM, 
The Buceniaur lies rottisig unrestorod. 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
8t. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood * 
Stand, but in mockery of his witherM power, 
OvCT the proud Place where an emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 

When Venice was a queen with an unequallM dower. 



The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reign 
An emperor tram|»lea where an emperor knell > 
Idigdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have W 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
Oh for one hour of blind okl Dandolo ! * 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering S» 

xm. 

Before St. Mark still glow his ateeda of brass. 
Their gilded collars glittering in the aim ; 
But is not Doris's menace come to pass ? ' 
Are they not bridled 7 — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence bhe rose ! 
Better be whcbn'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign fi>es, 
fVom whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV. 
In youth she was aH glor>', — a new Tyre,^ 
Her very by-word sprung from victory. 
The " Planter of the Lion," " which through firs 
And Uood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 

, Though making many slaves, herself still five, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto*s fight ! 

For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight 

XV. 

Statues of glass— all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pik 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust. 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls. 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as muft 
Too ofl remind her who and what enthrals, " 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely wsQs. 

XVI. 
When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Mi—i *' 
Her voice tAcir only ransom from alar ; 
See ! as they chant the tragic Igrmn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reina 
Fall fitxn his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — be rends his captive's duum, 
And bids him thank the bard for fi-oodom and his 



xvn. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the hard divine. 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut tlie knot 
Which tics thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : tiie ocean queen shouJd not 
Abandon ocean^s children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wal. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



71 



xvm. 

am my boyhood— die to me 
Tj city of the heirt, 
rater-columns from the sea, 
joum, and of wealth the mart ; 
Radcliffb, Schiller, Shak^peare's art,i> 
her ima^ in me, anti even so, 
Kind her thus, we did not part, 
ven dearer in her day of woe, 
e was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 

XIX. 

le with the paat — and of 

there is still for eye and thought, 

ioo chasten'd down, enough ! 

: may be, than I hoped or sought : 

appiest moments which were wrought 

rrf) of my existence, some 

'djr Venice ! have their colours caught : 

me feeling? time cannot benumb, 

ic, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 

XX. 

ir nature win the tannen grow " 
>(Uest and least shelter^ rocks, 
rreoncms, where nought below 
Mts them 'sainst the Alpine shocks 
:orms ; yet sprinirs the trunk, and mocks 
tempest, till its height and frame 
»f the mountains from whose blocks 
ly granite, into life it came, 
nt tree ; — the mind may grow the same. 

XXI. 

ay be borne, and the deep rool 
uffcrance nudcc its firm dxxie 
Jesolated bosoms: mute 
iboiirs with the heaviest load, 
r dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
d such example be ; if they, 
noMc or of savage mood, 
ihrink not, we of nobler clay 
to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 
doth destroy, or is destroyed, 
miffercr ; and, in each event 
la^ with hope rp|>IenishM and rcbuoy'd, 
Moee ih^ came — with like intent, 
heir web again ; some, bowM and bent 
kJ ghutly, "withcrinv ere their time, 
rith the reed on vihich tliey leant ; 
evotioii, toil, war, good or crime, 
bar tools were IbrmM to sink or climb : 

XXIII. 
: anon of grief subdued 
i a token like a scorpion^s sting, 
, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
ithal may be the things uliich bring 
heart the weight which it would fling 
cr : it may bo a sound — 
jsic, — summer^s eve— or spring, 
e wind — the ocean — wluch shall wound, 
Ktrk chain wherewith wo are quickly 



And how ud wfaj we know boC| nor can trace 
Home to its deiid this ti|h>ninf of the mind, 
But feel the shock reaewVi, nor can efface 
The blight and bbckeinif which it leavus behind, 
Which out of Chiogs luufisr, indesign^d. 
When least we deem of suefa, calls ap to ««w 
The spectres whom no eioreisn cut bind. 
The cold — the change d — pe rc hance the dnsd rinriv 
The moumM, the loved, the tost t oomsny! yet bdw 
few! 



Bat my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to trade 
Fallen states and buried greatness, o*er a land 
Which \oa» the mighuest in its old command, 
And ts the loveliest, and must ever bo 
The master>moukl of nature's heavenly hand. 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave— the lords of earth and sea, 

XXVI. 

The coramoowealth of kings, the men d* Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all art yields, and nature can decree; 
Even in thy desert, what ii like to thee 7 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glorj', and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be de&oed. 

xxvn. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night- 
Sunset divides the sky with her— a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the west, 
Where the day joins the past eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest! 

xxvm. 

A single star is at her side, and rei^nis 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; Lul still • 
Von sunny sea heaves bri<;htly, ami reinniiis 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rluetian li:il. 
As day and night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep>dycd Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-boni r<>so, 
Which streams upon her stream, and gla&i'd within /• 
glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar. 
Comes down u[K>n the waters ; all it& hues. 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Tlicir magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang iinbiiev 
With a new colour as it gasps away. 
The last still toveliest, till— 't is gone— and all is gra* 



72 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tliere is a tomb in Arqua ;— roar'd m airy 
PillarM in their sarcophapn, repoM 
Tlie bones of Laura's bver ; hart npair 
Many fiuniUar with his wdl-sung woes, 
The pilgrims <^ his gemm. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
FVom the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name ** 
With hu melodious tears, he gave himaelf to &me. 

XXXL 

They keep lus dust in Arqua, where he died ; ** 
The mountain-village where his latter dajrs 
Went down the vale of yeans ; and 'tis their pride— 
An honest prido— and let it be their praise. 
To ofTer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
llian if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXX3I. 
And ihe soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
/or those who their mortality have felt. 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep undi>rago of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospc^ct far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. 

xxxni. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a cakn languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
'T is solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no tlotterers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive. 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, '* who impair 
The strength q{ better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay. 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which IS not of the pangs that pass away j 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb. 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

I* errara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets. 
Whose synmietry was not for solitude. 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
(if £ste, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyraiK, as Uie changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, (^ those who wore 
The w'e^th which Dazite's brow ak»e had worn before. 



And Tasso is th'dr ^ory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell! 
And see how deariy eam'd Torquato's fiune, 
And wh«re Alfonso bade lus poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and MeaA 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away— and on that name stteni 

xxxvn. 

The tears and praises of all time; wUIe thine 
Woukl rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy pcKW malice, naming thee with scorn— 
Alfbnifo! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station bom. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to moanL 

xxxvni. 

Thou ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and <fie, 
Even as the beasts Uiat perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
He ! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow " 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking Iptf 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but lu miis. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modem song! 
Each year brings forth its nuUions ; but how loof 
The tide of generations shall roll on. 
And not the whole combined and countless throog 
Compose a mind like thine ! though all in one 

Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not ibnab 
sun. 

XL. 
Great as thou art, yet paraOel'd by those. 
Thy countrymen, before thee bora to shine, 
The bards of hell and chivalry : first rope 
The Tuscan father's Comedy Divine ; 
Tlien, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minttrei who calPd M 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the north, 

Sang ladye-love and war, romanoe ud kaigfat^ *^ * 

XLL 

The lightning rent from Arioalo^ btHt" 
The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leares ; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
For the true laurel- wreath which glory weavst" 
Is of the tree no boH of thimder cleaves. 
And the &lse semblance but disgraced his brow; 
Yet still, if fondly superstition grieves, 
Know that the lightning sanctifies bdow ** 
Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred now* 



CHILDE HAROLD*? PILGRIBiAGE. 



73 



bltaiia! thoa who hut** 

: gift of beauty, which became 

1 dower of present woes and past, 

weot brow is sorrow ploughM bjr ■h*"^*^ 

Us graired in characters erf" flame. 

! that thou wert in thy nakedness 

Jy or more powerfiil, and couldst daim 

t, and awe the robbera back who press 

r blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; 

XLin. 

{ht'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
[^ and be peaceful, undeplored 
lestructire charms ; then, stiQ untired, 
ot be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
t deep Alps ; nw would the hostile horde 
-natioa'd spoilers (rom the Po 
lod and water ; nor the stranger's iwcrd 
ad weapo.i of defence, and so, 
inquish^d, thouAhe slave of friend or foe. 

XLIV. 

ng in youth, I traced the path of him,*> 

vitk friend of Rome's least mortal miiwi^ 

id of TuUy : as my bark did skim 

bt blue waters with a fanning wind, 

egara before mo, and behind 

ly, Pireus on the right, 

inth on the left ; I lay reclined 

i prow, and saw all these unite 

n as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLV. 

hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 

dwellings on their shatter'd site, 

ily saake more moum'd and more endear'd 

last rajrs of their &r-scatterM light, 

3iish'd relics of their yanish'd mighu 

lan saw these tombs in his own age, 

•pulchres oTdtics, which excite 

iier, and his yet surviving page 

lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 

:e is now before me, and on mine 
try's ruin added to the mass 
*d stales he moum'd in their decline, 
dcsoUtkm : all that was 
losliuction in; and now, alas! 
Ume imperial, bows her to the storm, 
nse dust and Uacknesn, and we pass 
i of her Titantic ibrm,>« 

' fpoiid, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLvn. 

f ! dirough every other land 

igs sboukl ring, and shall, from side to side ; 

f arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 

1 our guardian, and is still our guide ; 

'our religion ! whom the wide 

lave knelt to for the keys of heaven! 

repentant of her parricide, 

redeem tbee, and, all backward driven, 

■banan tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

I 8 15 



xLvin. 

But Aiao wins us to the fair white walls. 
Where the Ktrurian Athens dums and keepe 
A softer feefing Sat her &iry halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, siie reaps 
Her com, and wine, and oil, and plenty leipe 
To laughing life^ with her rodvidant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Amo sweeps 
Was modem luxury iif i iiwiiiioii boi% 
And buried Itaming roM^ wd te w Bi to a nsw mom. 



There, too, the goddess kives in stone, and fifls** 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Ofheaven is half undrawn; vrithm the pale 
We stand, and m that form and face bohoM 
What muid can make, when nature's self would hM , 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mooU: 

L. # 

We gaze and turn a>vay, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal art. 
We stand as captives, and would not deparL 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise. 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart. 
Where pedantry gulls folly — we havo eyes: 
Bk>od — pidse — and breast, confirm the Dardan shep- 
herd's prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd lord of war? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star. 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to (hec upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! '• while ihy lips arc 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as fhwi an 
uro? 

Ln. 

Glowing, and circumfused in spcecliless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve. 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
Of earth recoils u|K>n us ; — let it go! 
We can recall such visions, and create, 
From what has been or might be, things which gio>v 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

Lin. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
The artist and his ape, to teach nnd toll 
How well his ccnnoisscurship understands 
The graceful bend, and tlic voluptuous swell . 
Let these describe the undescribablc : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the 
Wherein that imago shall for ever dwell ; 
The unnifDed mirror of the loveliest dream 
lliat ever lefl the sky on the deep soul to beam. 



74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



UV. 

• In Santa Croce's holy precincta lie ** 
Aabea which make it holier, dust whidi if 
Even in itself an immortality, 
Though there were nothing save the paaC, and this, 
The particle of those sublinuties 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri*s bones,** and his, 
Hie starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machia?elli's earth returned to whence it rose.** 

LV. 

Tliese are four minds, which, like the elements. 

Might furnish ibrth creation : — Italy ! 

Time, which hath wrongM thee with ten thousand 

rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky. 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
9mh as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

• LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — ^where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguishM from our common day 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust. 
And have their country^s marbles nought to say 7 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust 7 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust 7 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps a&r,'* 
like Sdpio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; ** 
Thy fitttkms, in their worse than civil war, 
Plroscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Hieir children's chiklren would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown ** 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wwe. 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 

dii bfe, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine 
own. 

LVIU. 
Boccaccio to -his parent earth bequeathM'' 
His dust, — and lies it not her great among. 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
0*er him who fimnM the Tuscan's siren tongue 7 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptom, must bear the hyiena bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 

^lor daim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 

LIX. 
And Santa Croco wants their mighty dust ; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Cesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : 
Htppier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore. 
Fortress of faUing empire ! honour'd sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her stort 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keefw. 
While Florence vamly begs her banish'd dead and weepa. 



What is her pjrramid of -precious stones ? ** 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hoes 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes 7 the momentary <lews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Fregluiess in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the muse. 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princdy hen 

LXI. 

There be more things to gree* the heart and ejm 
In Amo's dome of art's most princely duine. 
Where sculpture with her rainbow siiiter vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with nature rather in the fields. 
Than art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which itwiddi 

t 

LXIL 
Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
For there the Carthaginian's wariike wiles 
Come back before mc, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore, 
Where courage falls in her despairing ties. 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'do'ff 

Lxni. 

lake to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day. 
And such the phrenzy, whose convulsion bCndi 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fnj 
An earthquake reei'd unheededly away I '^ 
None fdt stem nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers fbr a winding-sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring 

LXIV 
The earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to eternity ; they saw 
The ocean round, but had no time to mark 
TIm) motions of their vessels ; nature's law 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountaiiuf tremble, and ike Mrd 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withikaw 
From their down-toppling nests ; and beUowiof kt(» 
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dresd hsik ' 
words. 

LXV 

Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 

Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 

Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 

Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 

Lay where their roots are ; but a brouk hath ta'flV' 

A little rill of scanty stream and bed— 

A name of blood from that dav's sanguine raiii 

And Sangu'metto teUs ye where the dead 
Made the earth, wet, and tum'd the unwilling watertit^ 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



75 



LXVL 

a, ClkanmiM ! m thy sweetest wave** 

most Uvuig crystal that was e'er 

jnt of river pymph, to gaze and lave 

be where notKing hid them, thoa dost rear 

Lssy banks whereon the milk-white steer 

; the purest god of gentle walersl 

)^ serene of aspect, and most clear ; 

that stream was improTaned by slaughters — 

ind a bath for beauty's youngest daughters I 

Lxvn. 

thy happy shore a temple still, 
U and ddicate proportion, keeps, 
oiild declivity of hiD, 
K»ry of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
rrent*s eahnness ; oCi trcm out it leapt 
oy darter with tlM glittering scales, 
Ar-eUs and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
ere the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
ales. 

LXVffl. 

< onblest the genius of the place ! 
igh the air a zephjnr more serene 
the brow, 't is his ; and if ye trace 
lis margin a more eloquent green, 
e heart the freshness of the scene 
5 its codness, and from the dry dust 
ry life a moment lave it clean 
ature's baptism, — 't is to him ye must 
IS for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

r of waters l^from the headlong height 
cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
of waters ! rapid as the Kght 
thing mass foams shaking the absrss ; 
I of waters ! where they howl and hiin, 
1 in endless torture ; while the sweat 
' great agony, wrung out from this 
hlcgethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

ants in spray the skies, and thence again 
in an unceasing shower, which round, 
I uneroptied cloud of gentle rain, 
eraal April to the ground, 
it all one emerald :— how profound 
rt and bow the giant element 
ck to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
g the cliflk, which, downward worn and rent 
footsteps^ yield in chasms a fearful vent 



LXXL 

wmd eohunn which rolls on, and shows 

ce the fountain of an infant sea 

m the womb of mountains by the throes 

Mr worid, than only thus to be 

if rivers, which flow gushingly, 

uiy windings, through the vale :— 4ook back! 

ere it comes like an eternity, 

sweep down all things in its trade, 

the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract, '* 



Lxxn. 

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, ^ 

From side to side, beneath the glittering mom, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, "** 
Like hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted watov, bears serene 

• Its brilliant huM with all their beams unshorn : 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 

L>ve watching madness with unalterable mien. 

Lxxm. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which— had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pina 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar ' 
Tlie thundering lauwine**— might be worshippM 

more; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Moot-Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 
Th' Acrooeraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for feme, 
For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I 've lodc'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, ^tna. Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity. 
All, save the lone Soracto's height, display'd 
Not noio in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the pltin 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curi hangs pausing: not in Tain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake. 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by won!** 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which tum'd 
My sickening memory ; and, though time hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it Icam'd, 
Y^t such the fix'd inveteracy i^-rought 
By the impatience of my early thought. 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought. 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

Lxxvn. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so. 
Not for thy feults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor bard prescribe his an. 
Nor fivetier satirist the conscience pierce. 
Awakening without woundmg the touch'd heart, 
Tet fare thee well— upon Soracte*8 ridge we nan. 



76 



BYRON'S WORKa 



Lxxvm. 

Oh Rome ! my oouotrj ! city of the toul ! 
The orphans of the heart mtist turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance 7 Come and 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er stflps of broken thrones and temples, ye ! 
Whose agonies are eriis of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our day. 

LXXIX. 
Hie Niobe of nations ! there she stands. 
Childless and crownless, in her 'wacdess woe ; 
Ab empty urn within her wither'd hands, 
Whose holy dost was scattered long ago ; 
The Sdpioa* tomb contains no ashes now ; ** 
The Tery sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. 
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness 7 
Rite, with thy yellow wares, and mantle her 



The Gkith, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fire, 
Hare dealt upon the seren-hilTd city's pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. 
Where the car cUmb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site :— 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, " here wif, or is," where all is doubly nigfat7 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of hor. 
Night's daughter, ignorance, hath wrapt and wri4> 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Scumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka !" it is clear- 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

Lxxxn. 

Alas! the lofty city! andahs! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! ** and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shaO be 
Her resurrection; aQ beside— decay. 
Alas, for earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
free! 

Lxxxni. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, ** 
Triumphant Sylla ! thou who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou would pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who widi thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With u atoning mQe a more than etrlhly crow»— 



LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath, c otddst thou ifivina 
To what wouU one day dwindle that which 
Thee more than mortal 7 and that so supina 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be Ind ? 
She who was named eternal, and array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer— she who veiTd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'ern^anopied horizon fail'd. 
Her rushing wings— Oh ! she who was afanghty baiTJ 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but oar own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the tfarow 
Down to a block — immortal rebd ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment five 
And funous through all ages ! but beneadi 
His &te the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Bdield him win two realms, and, happier, yield lap 
breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The third of the same moon whose former comt 
Had all but crown'd him, on the sel&ame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne cf' foirce^ 
And hud him with the earth's preceding day. ** 
And sbow'd not fortune thus how fame and sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her eyes less h^py than the tomb? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were hudooir^ 

Lxxxvn. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet existent m 
The austerest form of naked majesty, ** 
Thou who belieldest, 'mid the as^aMins' dm, 
At thy bathed base the bk>ody Cesar lie, 
Folding hu robe in dying dignity, 
An ofl^ering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis 7 did he <fic, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey 7 have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

LXXXVIII. 
And thou, the thunder^strickcn nurse of Rome ! ** 
She- wolf ! whose brazcn-imafod du<;s impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the doin» 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest :— mother of the mighty iMwt, 
Which the great founder suckM from ihy w9d IMI, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dartp 
And thy limbs black with lightning— doat rins yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond dnqpi forgtl' 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babea are dead— 
The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fciar'd, 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'c 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have. 
Nor coukl, the same supremacy have near**!. 
Save one vain man, who is not in the gravi^ 
But, vanquiah'd by himad^ to his own alavaa a di>^ 



1 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



77 



XC. 

Tlw fool of ftlse doniniao — uid a kbd 
Of butard Cesar, fbUowing him of old 
With itept unequal ; fi>r the Roman*! mind 
Was modellM in a less terrestrial mould,** 
With passioos fiercer, yet a judgment oold, 
And an tmmortal instinct wfakh redeemed 
Thefivltiesof a heart so soft, yet bold ; 
Alddes with the distaff now be seem'd 
At Cleopatra's ieet, — and now himielf he beamed, 

XCI. 

And came— and saw—and oooquer'd ! But the man 
Who would hare tamed his ea|^ down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the OiOac nui^ 
Which he, in sooth, long led to rietory. 
With a desf heart wluch iierer seem'd to be 
A listener to itidf^ was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness— vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition— still he aim'd— 
At what: canheanmch— oranswerwhathedaimM? 

xcn. 

And would be all or noChin^^-HMr could wait 
For the sure {[rave to level him ; fe^r years 
Had fix*d him with the Cesars in his (ate, 
On whom we tread : for thu the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed, 
A unnrersal dehige, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow !— Renew thy rainbow, God ! 

xcm. 

What (rtNn this barren being do we reap? 
Oar senses narrow, and our reason frail,^ 
life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And aO things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
Opinion and omnipotenoe, — ^wfaose veil 
Mantles the earth with dsr kn ess , until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow psle 
Lest their own judgments should become ioo bright, 
And their free thoti^ts be crimes, and eanh have too 
mnchli^iL 

XCIV. 

And thus they plod in iluggish misery. 
Rotting from are to son, and age to age, 
Pjrood of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for thsir chains, and, rather than be free, 
Bleed ^ndialor-like, and still engage 
WiUwi te sane arena where they see 

1 61 befere^ like leaves of the same tree. 



XCV. 

1 ipeak not of men's creeds— they rest between 
Rian and Ins Maker-'^^Mit of things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known, and daily, hourly seen,— 
Tlie yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd. 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd. 
The edict of earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled onoe the proud. 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
Too g^orioui^ mtn thii tB his niglity aim had done. 



XCVI. 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquor'd be. 
And fi^eedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled 7 
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild. 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midtt the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature flriled 
On infant Washington? Has earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? 

xcvn. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia beoi 
To freedom's cause, in every age and cUme ; 
Because the deadly days wluch we have seeOi 
And vile ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine waH, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene. 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's wors(-4its 
second fell. 

xcvra. 

Tet, freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but fljrin^ 
Streams like the thunder-storm agaiiut the wind : 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Cbopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth. 
But the sap lasts,^-and stiU the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of Uie north ; 
So shall a better muring leas bitttr firuit bring forth. 

XCIX. 

rniere is a stem round tower of other days,** 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown. 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ;— 
What was this tower of strength? within its cava 
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid 7 — ^A- woman's gravib 

C. 

But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king's— or more— a Roman's bed ? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived-— how loved— ^ow died she ? Was she nuC 
So honour'd— and conspicuously there. 
Where meaner rdics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? 

CL 

Was she as those who k>ve their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others? such have been. 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profiise of joy— or 'gainst it did she war. 
Inveterate in virtue 7 Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefii?— for such the affoctMlia 



78 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cn. 

Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderoia tomb 
That weighM upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o*er her beauty, and a ^oom 
In her dark eye, (Mrophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; *" yet shed 
A sunset eharm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the 'dead, 
(Jl her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf>like red. 

cm. 

Perchance she died in age— surviving all. 
Charms, kindred, children — ^with tiie silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a 8(Mnething of thd day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
By Rome— —But whither woidd conjecture stray? 
Thus much alone we know— Metella died. 
The wealthiest Roman's wife ; behold his love or pride ! 

CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known. 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind : 
Tet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Tin 1 had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms i om the flottiag wtetk which ruin leaves behind; 

CV. 

And ihHn the planks, &r shattered o'er the rodts, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where diould I steer? 
'th&n woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. 

CVI. 
Chea let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper virith the owlet's cry. 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
i>im o^er the bird of darkDest* nadve sita^ 
Answering each other «d die Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all ^sCaning gray and bright, 
And sailing pinions.— -Upoo nioh a shrine 
What are our petty grie& ?— 4et me not number mine. 

CVIL 

Cypress and ivy, weed and waTl-flower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, ardi cmsh'd, column strown 
In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd. 
Deeming it midnight: — ^tonples, bath^ or halls? 
Pronounce who can ; for aB tfiat learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, tiiat these are walls — 
Heboid the Imperial Mount 1 'tis thus the migh^ falls.*' 



cvin. 

There is the moral of all human tales ; ** 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
I^rst freedom, and then glory — ^when that fiub, 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
And history, with all her volumes vast. 
Hath but one page, — 't is better written here, 
Where goi^eous ^nranny had thus amaas'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear. 

Heart, soul, oovdd seek, tongue adi Away with wank! 

draw near, 

CDL 
Adnure, exult^-des[Mse — laugh, weq>, — fisr here 
There is such matter for all feeling :— man! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
• Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated jdan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of glory's gewgaws shining in the van. 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fllPd! 

Where are its golden roofr ? where those who dared to 
build? 

ex. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 
Thou nameless column vrith the buried base! 
What are the laurels of the Cnsar's brot?? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelUng-pIaoe. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus, or Traijan's? No— 'tis that of time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scofling ; and apostolic statues ^mb 
To crush the impoial urn, whose ashes riept subGow,^ 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep-bhie sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : diey had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home. 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth rdgi^dl) 
The Roman globe, for afler none sustain'd. 
But 3rielde<l back his conquests :-^— he was moie 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
With household Uood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtures— still we Tn^an's name adore.** 

cxn. 

Where is the rock of triumph, the high place 
Whore Rome embraced her heroes 7 where the UMP 
Tarpeian? fittest goal of treason's race. 
The promontory wh^ice the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambilioo. Did the'conquerors^heaf 
Their spoils here 7 Tes : and in yon 6eld bden^ 
A thousand years of silenced factioiM sleep— 
The forum, where the immortal accents i/km^ 
And still the eloquent air breathes — ^bumt frith CH*>' 



cxm. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: 
Here a proud people's paraions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bod 
To that when further worlds to conquer faiPd ; 
But long before had freedom's face been vetPd, 
And anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who ttssail'd 
Trod on the trembhng senate's slavish mote^^ 
Or raised the venal voice of biaer proirttBHi. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



^9 



«re to her latest tribune*! name, 
en thousand tjrraots turn to thee, 
of dark centories of riiame— 
of Petrarch — hope of Italy- 
it of Rooians ! »» While the tree 
i*s wither'd trunk puts forth a lea^ 
^ tomb a garland let it he- 
's champioo, and the people's chie^ 
a Noma thou — with reign, alas ! too brieC 

cxv. 

weet creation of some heart ** 
nd no mortal resting-place so fiur 
ieal breast ; whatever thou art 
-a yuang Aurora of the air, 
holepsy of some fond despair ; 
ht be, a beautjr of the earth, 
da more than common rotary there 

adoring ; whatsoe'er thj birth, 

besutifiil thought, and softly bodied forth. 

CXVI, 

es of thy fountain stiD are sprinkled 
e Etysian water-drops ; the face 
▼e-goarded spring, with yean unwrinkled, 
le meek-eyed genius df {he place, 
een, wild margin now no more erase 
(s ; nor must the delicate waters ileep, 
1 marble ; bubbling from the base 
ft statue, with a gentle leap 
o'er, and round, fern, Bowws, and hry creep, 

cxvn. 

Jly tangled ; the green hills 
d with early blossoms, through the gnui 
-eyed fizard rustles, and the bills 
r^turds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
tah in hue, and many in their dass, 
e pausing step, and with their dyes 
the soft breeze in a fairy mass; 
itess of the violet's deep-blue ejres, 
s breath of heaven, seems oolour'd by its 



cxvm. 

. thou dweO, in this enchanted eover, 

by aD-heavenly bosom beating 

r footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 

e nudnight veil'd that mystic meeting 

nost starry canopy, and seating 

f tlnne adk>rer, what befeD? 

wm sorely shaped out for the greeting 

— Mi'd goddess, and the cell 

bsiy love— the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX. 

thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
lestial with a human heart ; 
whidi dies as it was bom, in sighing, 
I immortal transports 7 could thine art 

indeed immortal, and impart 
f of heaven to earthly joys, 
venom and oot Uunt the dart— 
atiety whidi all destroys— 

1 out the soul the deadly weed which cloys 7 



cxx. 

Alas! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert ; ytrheace arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers wbose mid odours breathe but agonies. 
And trees whose gums are poison; such tbephaita 
Wluch spring beneath her steps as passion f6m 
O'er the woiid's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidilen to our wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh love ! no habiMmt of earth thoa art— 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the brokoi heart, 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heavw. 
Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unqoench'd soul— parch'd— weaiied* 
wrung— and riven. 

cxxn. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
And fovers into false creation : — ^wbere, 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seiMd^ 
In him alone. Can nature show so fairt 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as m en- 
The unreach'd paradise of our despair. 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pea. 
And overpowers the page when It wookl bloom again) 

CXXIIL 
Who loves, rav es ' t is youth's frenzy — but the oyrs 
Is bitterer still ; ae charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of sudi, yet stiU it binds 
The fatal spell, and stiU it draws us on. 
Reaping the whiridwind from the oft-sown wuds; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when moat an 
done. 

CXXIY. 
We wither from our youth, we gasp away^ 
Sick— sick ; unfound the boon— unslaked the thirst. 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay. 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first— 
But all toe late,— «o are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avariee— 't is the same. 
Each idle— -and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name. 
And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 

CXXV. 

Few— none— find what they love or could have kyved, 
lliough accident, blind contact, and the sfem^ 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenoro'd with irrevocable wrong : 
And circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a enilch-liko rod. 
Whose toueh turns hopa to dust^-the dust w« an nav« 

trod. 



80 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXVL 

Our life is a falae nature — ^'t ia not in 
Tlie harmony of things, — this hard decree. 
This uneradicaUe taint (^f sin. 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew— 
Diiease, death, bondage— -all the woes we s e e ■ 
And worse, the woes we see not^— which throb through 
The inunedicable soul, with heartpaches ever new. 

cxxvn. 

Tet let us ponder boldly »*— *t ii a base 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thoughtr-our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mhie : 
Tliough from our birth the faculty divine 
la chainM and tortured— cabinM, cribb'd, confined. 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too bristly on the unprepared mind, 
Ths beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
blind. 

CXXVIIl. 

Arches cm arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line. 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. 
Her Coliseinn stands ; the mooo-bearos shine 
As 't were its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the tight which streams here, to illume 
This long-«xpk>red but still exhaustless m'me 
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom 
Of an ItaUan night, when the deep 



CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye-of heaven, 
Floats o*er this vast and wondrous monument. 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruined battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 



Oh time ! the beautiBfor of the dead, 
Adomer of the ruin, oomferter 
And only healer when die heart hath bled— 
Time ! the corrector when oar judgments err. 
The test of truth, lore,-<-Ml« plnlMopher, 
For all beside are sophists, fipom tlqr thvifl, 
Which never loses thoagh k dolh defer — 
Time, the avenger! onto rneo I lifl 
My hands, and ey««, Md lieut, and crave of thee a gift : 



Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate. 
Among thy mightier ofterings here are mfafie. 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate :— 
If thou has* ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not: but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my prid^ against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
lliis iron in my soid in viin shaC IA9 not mourn? 



CXX3UL 

And thou, who nerer yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemeas ! ** 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage kng* 
Thou, who didst call the fiiries from the abyss, 
And roand Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution— just. 
Had it but been firom hands less near — in tins 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! thou sbsh, UN 
must. 

cxxxm. 

It ii not that I may not have incurr'd 

For my ancestral fauhs or mine the wound 

I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 

With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound^. 

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 

To Ihee I do devote it — thou shalt lake 

The vengeance, which shall yet be sought andfiNnd 

Which if / have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass 1 deep, but thou shah yet awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
I shrink from what is 8ufier*d : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record wiD I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words dUsprrse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse. 
And piw on human heads the nKnmtaui of my 



cxxxv. 

Tliat curse shall be forgiveness^Have I nou- 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven!- 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot 7 
Have I not sufTer'd things to be forgiven 7 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart rives, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied awi^i 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy. 
Have I not seen what human things could do 7 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few. 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew. 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye^ 
Learning to lie with silenc^ would stcsi true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or ngh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obbqay. 

cxxxvn. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in van: 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering paio^ 
But there is that witliin me which shall tire 
Torture and time, and breathe when I eipire; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not o( 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their 8of\en'd spirits nnk, and move 
In hearts all rodcy now the late rematac ofkirs. 



I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



81 



cxxxvin. 

il is set. — Now welcome, thou dmd 
ffs, yet thus omoipolent, which here 
I in the shadow of the midnlfht hour 
deep awe, jet all distinct firom lear ; 
unts are ever where the dead walls rear 
fy mantles, and the sdemn scene 
I from thee a sense so deq> and clear 
■c become a part of what has been, 
' unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 



;re the buzz of eager naticns ran, 
nuv'd pity, or loud-roar'd appianse, 
n was tlaughter'd by hii Mkm man. 
herefure slaufshter'd 7 wherefore, bul because 
rere the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
e imperial pleasure.— Wherefore not 7 
matters where we foU to fill the maws 
rms— on battle-pluns or listed spot7 
but theatres where thechief actors rot. 

CXL. 

»efore me the gladiator lie:^ 
ins upon nil hand — hit manly brow 
Dts to death, but conquers agony, 
IS droopM bead sinks gradually low^^— 
irough his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
the red gash, (all heavy, one by one, 
be first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
rena swims around hinw-4ie is gone, 
led the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
who won. 

CXLI. 
ard it, bi-t he heeded not — his eyes 
witn hill heart, and that was far away ; 
rk*d not of the life he lout nor prize, 
here his nide hut by the Danube lay 
were liis young barbarians all at play, 
was their Dacian mother — ^he, their mn^ 
er*d to make a Roman holiday — ^ 
IS rushM with his blood — Shall he expire, 
iTcnged 7— Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your be! 

CXUL 
pre, where murder breathed her bkwdy steam ; 
icre, where buzzing nations choked 'the ways, 
oarM or murmur'd like a motmtain stream 
ng or winding as its torrent strays ; 
where the Roman million's blune or praise 
death or life, the playthings of a crowd,** 
Mce sounds much and &11 the stars' foint rays 
e arena void— seats crush'd — ^walls bow'i^ 
leries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 



cxun. 

0— vet what ruin ! from its mass 
I, palaces, haM^ties, have been rear'd ; 
A the enormous skeleton ye pass 
narrel where the spoil ccmld have appeared, 
it indeed been plundered, or bul cinr*dl 
: developed, opens the decay, 
a the culowal bbric's form is nair'd : 
1 not bear the hrigfatness of the day, 
streams too mneb on all yean, man, have reA 
away. 

16 



cxuv. 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gendy pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops <^ time. 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. 
Like laureb on the bald first Cesar's head ; *' 
When the light shines serene but doth not g^are. 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — ^'t is on their dust ye treaiL 

CXLV. 

" While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; ** 

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 

And when Rome falls — the world." From our o«m 

lanJ 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are vroot to call 
Ancieat ; and these three mortsl things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Rome and her ruin past redemption's skill, 
Tlie worid, the same wide den— of thieves, or what va 

wilL 

CXLVI. 

Simple^ erect, severe, austen^ sublime — 
Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods. 
From Jove to Jesus— spared and Uest by lime ; ** 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and nan ploo* 
His way Uirough thorns to ashes— glorious dome I 
Shah thou not last 7 Time's scythe and tyrants* rods 
Shiver up<Mi th ee sanctuary hmI home 
Of art and piety— Pantheon ! — piMe of Rome ! 

cxLvn. 

Rdie of nobler di^rs, and noblest arts ; 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts— 
To art a modd ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the saJie of ages, glory sheds 
Her light through thy sde aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are ahors for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honouHd fbrms, whose busts around 
them close.*' 

cxLvm. 

There is a ifamgoon, in whoee ^m drear light ** 
What do I gaze on 7 Notlung ! Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly ibadow'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantooM of the brain: 
It is not so ; I see IhHi ftl end plam — 
An old man, and a Amde ymmg aad &ir, 
Fresh as a nursing wothet, in whoee vem 
The bk)od is nectar ; but whet delh she there. 
With her unmantled neck, aad hoeMi white and bare * 

cxuz. 

Full swells the deep ptv^ fountain of yoiin^ life. 
Where on the heart and /rom the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife 
Blest into mother, in the Innocent luo«. 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceive* 
Man knowa not, whee from out its cradled noot 
She sees her Bttle bud put forth its leaves— 
What may the fhnft be yet 7— I know nolr^ain 
EfiPe. 



83 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CL. 



But here youth offers to old age the food. 
The milk of hui own gift : — it u her sire, 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Bom with her birth. No : he shall not expire 
While in those warm and loyely Tdns the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can proTide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
l>rink, drink and live, old man I Heaven's reahn holds 
no such tide. 

CLL 

The starry ftble of the uiilky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray. 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse I 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
iVith life, as our freed soub reiioai the universe. 

CUL 

Turn to the mole ^fHiieh Adrian reaFd on hi^ ** 
Imperial mimic of okl Eg]rpt's piles, 
Colossal copjrist of deformity, 
Wbow tisPtll'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enonani model, dooro'd the artist's toils 
To bodd for giants, and, for his vain earth, 
His shranken ashes raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's ^ye ^th philosopluc mirth. 
To view the huge design which sprang from such a birth. 

CLm. 
But lo I the dome— the vast and wmidrous dome, *' 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his mair^s tomb I 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle— 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyena and the jadial in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofii swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 

CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest akMoe— -with nothing like to thee— 
Worthiest of Ood, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's de e ola t ion, vffaen that He 
Forsook his former city, what oouM be, 
Of earthly strueturse b his honour piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect? Hi^iesty, 
Power, glory, strength, and beauty, aD are aisled 
In this eternal ark of wonhip qnd efi led. 

CLV. 

Knter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not. 
And why 7 it is not lessen'd ; but th v nund, 
Expanded by the geniiM of the spot. 
Has grown cdossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
lliy hopes of immortality; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God fiu:e to foce, as thou dost now 
His Hofy of HoHes, nnr be blasted by his brow. 



CLVL 

Thou movest— but mcreasing with the advance^ 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth risi^ 
Deceived by its gigantic degance ; 
Vastness which grows— but grows to hiiiisiiim 
All musical in its immensities : 
Rich marbles — richer painting— ahrines where iw 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome «^iich nm 
la air with earth's chief structures, though their linB 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the douds ■■ 
claim. 

CLvn. 

Thou seest not an ; but piecemeal thou most knil^ 
To separate contemplation, the great whole; 
And as the ocean many bays wiO make. 
That ask the eye— so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate oboects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by hsart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroH 
In mighty graduations, part by part. 
The glory which at once upon thee <fid not dart, 

CLvm. 

Not by its fault— liut thine : our outward senss 
Is but of gradual grasp— and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Ojtstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhdming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the pet^ 
Defies at first our nature's littleness. 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus cfilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they cootemplale. 

GUX. 

Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is non 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wond«> {^leased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought eoold pisf 
The fountain of subUmi^ displays 
Its depth, and thence may df«w tlie mind of bh 
Its goUen sands, and learn what great conceptkiiak 

CLX. 
Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laoooon's torture dignifying paiiw- 
A ffUher's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience Mending :— vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strua 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grsip^ 
The dd man's clench ; the kmg-envenon'd chiii 
Rivets the Uving links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles ga^ on gaq». 

CLXI. 

Or view Uie Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and ligki^ 
The sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot— the arrow 
With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eje 
And nostril beautifiil disdain, and might, 
And majesty, flash Iheir fiiU lightnings by, 
Devetoping in that one glaaoe tiM Deity. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



^mtm 



CLXIL 
delicaie form — a dream of lore, 
■ome sofiury nymph, whose breast 
a deathless lover from above, 
tn*d in that vision — are exprest 
al beauty ever blessM 
vith in its most unearthly mood, 
I conception was a heavenly guestp— 
nmortality — and stood, 
imd, until they gathered to a god I 

CLxm. 

e Prometheus stole from heaven 
lich we endure, it was repaid 
whom the energy was given 

poetic marble hath array*d 
emal glory — which, if made 
hands, is not of human thought ; 
himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 

in the dust— nor hath it caught 
ITS, but breathes the flame vidth mbkh 
IS wrought. 

CLXIV. 

is he, the Pilgrim of my son^, 
who upheld it through the past? 
le oom«th late and tarries long. 
a r e t hese breathings are his last; 
■ings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
wdf as nothing : — if he was 
I phantasy, and could be class'd 

which tivo and suffer — let that pass 
ifdes awuy into destruction's mass, 

CLXV. 

ten shadow, substance, life, and all 

herit, in its mortal shroud. 

Is the dim and universal paD 

hich all things grown phantoms ; and the 

d 

I sinks, and all which ever glow'd, 

self is twilight, and displays 

Ay haio scarce allow'd 

the verge of darkness ; rays 
addest lught, for they distract the gaxe, 

CLXVl. 

IS prying into the abjrss, 
irhat we shall be when the frame 
nlved to something less than this 
il ess en ce ; and to dream of fame, 
he dust from off the idle name 
tiore shall hear,— but never more, 
r thought! can we be made the same: 

1 in sooth that onoe we bore 
of the heart — the heart whose sweat was 



CLxvn. 

1 from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
diriBot murmur of dread sound, 
ises urben a nation bleeds 
deep and immedicable wound ; 
vm uid darkness yawns the remting ground, 
thick with phantoms, but the chief 
U stiB, though with her head chscrownM, 
Nil lovely, inth maternal grief 
Iwbo. to wImmb her hieait yieUi no refief. 



CLXVin. 

Scion of chieis and monarchs, where art tbocl 

F(»id hope of many nations, art thou dead? 

Could not the grave forget thee, and lay bw 

Some less miotic, less beloved head 7 

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still blod. 

The mother of a moment, 'o*er thy boy. 

Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled 

The present happiness and promised joy 

Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem*d to doy* 

CLXIX. 
Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord. 
And desolate consort—^nly wert thou wed! 
The husband of a year! the father of the dead! 

CLXX. 

Of sackck>th was thy wedding gjSrment made ; 
Thy biiHal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The frii^hair'd daughter of the isles is lakl, 
Tlie love of millions ! How we did intrust 
FuturiQr to her! and, though it must ■ . 

Darken above our bones, yet fondly detaN 
Our chiUren should obey her chiM, and 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whoee pronuat i 

Like rtars to shepherds' eyes:— 'tvwi but a meteer 
beam'd. 

CLXXI. 
Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps weH: 
The flckle wreath (^popular breath, the toogae 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,- 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'ersinng 
Nations h|ive arm'd in madness, the strange &te 
Which tumbles nughtiest sovereigns,** and hathflm^ 
Against their bhnd omnipotence a weight 

Within the opposing scale, wMch crushes soon or late,— 

CLXxn. 

These might have been her destiny ; butno^ 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair. 
Good without efibrt, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother— and now ther* ! 
How many ties did that tleni moment tear : 
From thy sire's to his hnmbitst sulgect's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of tiiat deq^ur, 
^ Whose shock was as an eartbquake's, and oppi«« 
iftlie land which loved thee lo tint none couU love thee 
best. 

CLxxni. 

Lo, Nemi ! ^^ navell'd in the woody hiOs 
So &r, that the uprooting wind, which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spiCa 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its fbam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror oflky glasay lake ; 
And, calm as c h eri a h W i hale, its sinfacn wea«s 
A deep cold settfod aspect nou^lu can ahak^ 
AU ooil'd ime itself and rounds aa sleefM the I 



84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXIV. 

And, near, Albano^s Ktrce divided wavefl 
Kline from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
*' Arms and the man,*' whose re-ascending star 
Rose o*er an empire ; — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight. 
The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight.** 

CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is woo, 
And he and I must part,— so let it be,^ 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and roe, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we foUow'd on till the dark £uxine roD'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the bhie Sjnnplegades : long years- 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have lefl us nearly where wv had begun : 
Tet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
We have had our reward— and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladdcn'd by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is dear. 

cLxxvn. 

Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair spirit for my minister. 
That I might aU forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her I 
Te elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted— can ye not 
Accord me such a being 7 Do I err 
L. deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Hiough with them to converse can rarely be our kit. 

CLxxvm. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the k>nely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes. 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not man the Wse, but nature more, 
FVom these our intenriows, in which I steal 
FVom all I may be, or have been before. 
To nunglo with the universe, and feel , 

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot aU c<HiceaI. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean— rofl ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
fdope with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
T^ wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
Whcii, for a moment, like a dn^ of rain, 
Hn sddui mto thy depths with bubbling groan, 
WiiteK a pmve^ uokneiPd unooflbi'd, and unknown. 



CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fieUs 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou doat arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength ha 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spuming him from thy boeom to the skies, 
Aiid send'st him, shivering in thy playful fpnj 
And howting, to his gods, where haply Ues 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth : — there kit haa hy* 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunder-striie the waQf 
Of rock-built citie*, bidding nations quake. 
And monarchs tremble in their capitsJs, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
' Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They meh into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Tra&Igar. 

CLxxxn. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in aU save thi»- 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are th^l 
Thy waters wasted them while tlicy were fii^ 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their denyr 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so tbQl^ 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' ptay— > 
Time writes no wiinkle on thine azure brow- 
Such as creaUon*s dawn beheld, thou roUest now* 

CLXXXUI. 

Thou gloriovn mirror, where the Almighty's torn 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storai, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and 
The image of eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each »■• 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomlesi, 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, ocean ! and myjof 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Boiiie, like thy bubbles, onward : from a bsj 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to ne 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 't was a pleasing foar, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane— aa I do has. 

CLXXXV. 

My taric is done — my song hath ceased— my th*^ 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted drem 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath it 
My midnight lamp— and what is writ, is wriL— 
Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been— and my viaons fit 
Less palpably before me— «nd the gkiw 
Which in my ipirit dwelt is fluttering, ftini, aid If" 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



86 



CLXXXVI. 

! a word that must be, and hath 
which makes ua linger, — yet — farewell ! 
> hare traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
I his hut, if in your memories dwell 
It which once was lus, if on ye swell 
recoilectioo, not in rain 
his sanda^shoon, and scaUop-sheD ; 
. ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
re were— wi!h you, the moral of his ilrun. 



NOTES. 



CANTO L 

Note 1. Stanza i. 
iifli'd o*er D«iphi*t loor-deMrtad shrine, 
le villago of Castri stands partly on the site of 
Joog the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, 
mains of sepulchres hewn in and from the 
ne,** said the guide, " of a king who broke 
jnting." His Majesty had certainly duMen 
tpoC tor tadk an achievemenL 
ibore Castri is a cave, supposed the Pytluan, 
« depth ; the upper part of it is paved, and 
r-house. 

odier side of Castri stands a Greek monas- 
e way above wliich is the cleft in the rock, 
^^ of caverns difficult of ascent, and ap- 
•ifing to the interior of the mountam ; prob- 
t Corydan Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. 
part descend the fountain and the '* Dews of 

Note 2. Stanza xz. 
d reel f e at " our Lady's boose of woe.** 
ivcnt of " Our Lady of Punishment,*^ NoMta 
Penoj * on the summit of the rock. Below, 
stance, is the Cork Convent, where SU Ho- 
l his den, over which is his epitaph. From 
he sea adds to the beauty of the view. 

Note 3. Stanza xzi. 
Mit this purple land, where law seeurea not life, 
well-knewn fact, that in the year 1809, the 
ions in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 
confined by the Portuguese to their country- 
that Englislmicn were daily butchered : and, 
a redress being obtained, we were requested 
n^cre if we perceived any compatriot defcnd- 
If against his allies. I was once stopped in 
3 the theatre at eight oVIock in the evening, 
streets were not more empty than they gener- 
t that hour, opposite to an open shop, and ia 
t with a friend ; had we not fortunately been 
wve not the least doubt that we should have 
I lale instead of telling one. The crime of 

ha pablicatioo of this poem [ have been informed 
appidieaaioa of the term ^Voata Scnora de Pema. 
nff to the want of the UltUt or mark over the n, 
rs the sifnificatioo of the word : with it, Pena aig- 
'k ; withoot it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do 
L necessary to alter the passage, as. though the eom- 
tation aiftjud to it b "our Lad v of the Rock,* ' I may 
• the other sanss. Ikom the ssveritiea fwaetiBed there. 



assassuiation is not confined to Portugal:' in SkS^ 
and Malta we are knocked on the head at a h a nd afl m n 
average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever 
punished ! 

Note 4. Stanza xziv. 
Behold the ball where chiefii were lato convened ! 
The convention of C intra was signed in the palace 
of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord 
WeUington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, 
indeed, done wonders: he has perhaps changed the 
charactOT of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, 
and baffled an enemy who never retreated be&re his 
predecessors. 

Note 5. Stanza xxix. 

Vet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 

The extent d* Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a pal' 

ace, convent, and most superb church. The six orgaai 

are the most beautiflil I ever beheld in point of deeo* 

ration ; we did not hear them, but were tdd that tb«r 



tones were correspondent to their splendour. Mafirs v 
termed the Escurial of Portugal. 

Note 6. Stanza xxxiiL 

Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'I'wixt him and Lusian slave, thu lowest of the h)W. 

As I found the Portuguese, so I have characteroed 
them. That they have since improved, at least in cou- 
rage, is evident. 

Note 7. Stanza xxxv. 



When Cava's traitor-sire first calPd the 

That dyed thy muuulam streams with Gothie gore I 

• Count Julianas daughter, the Helen of Spain. PoUf 

gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the 

Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after 

some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest 

of Grenada. 

Note 8. Stanza xlviii. 
No ! as he speeds he chaunts :— " Viva el Key !** 
"Viva el Rey Fernando!** — Long live King Ferdi- 
nand I IS the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic 
songs ; they are chiefly in dispraise of the old King 
Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have 
heard many of them ; some of the airs are beautifuL 
Godoy, the Prtndpe de la Paz, was bom at Badajoz, 
on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the 
ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted 
the qucen*s eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of 
Alcudia, etc. etc. It b to this man that the Spaniards 
universally impute the ruin of tlieir country. 

Note 9. Stanza 1. 

Boars in his cap the badge of crimson hue. 
Which tells yuu whom to shun and whom to greet. 

The red cockade, with " Fernando Septiroo" in the 

centre. 

Note 10. Stanza li. 

The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blaring match. 

All who have seen a battery will recollect the p>ra- 

midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The 

Sierra Morcna was fortified in every defile through 

which I passed in my way to Serille. 

Note 11. Stanza Ivi. 
FoiI'd by a woman*s hand before a battel d wall. 
Such wefe the eiploits of the Maid of Sarmgota. 
When the autlior was at Seville she walkad daihroo the 



86 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Pkwio^ decorated with medab and orders, by coounaDd 
of the Junta. 

Note 13. Stanza Iviii. 

The phbI Ioto'c riimplinc fiaccr hath imprecird 
Denote* how ttuft that chin iiut bean hu touch. 



Note t. Stanza L 

Rat woive than •leel. and flame, and afea ■knr, 
I« \hv. druwd icvptre ami dumiiiion diie 
(>r mm who nevwr If It Ihr wicred aiow 
That thou(ht« oflhre and thine on poluh'd 



" Sicilla in ni(>ntn imprpMa anMkrw dicitulo 
VetfUfio demonalrant iDollitudiDein. '-b^al. Od. 

Note 13. Stanza Iz. 
Oh. thou PamaMui ! 
These Stanzas were written in Castn (Delphos), at the 
foot of Parnassus, now called Atanpa — Liakura. 

Note 14. Stanza Ixr. 

Eair ii proud Hevillr ; kit h^ country boast 
er itrpnirth. her wealth, her mte of ancient dtfs. 

Seville was the Hupalis of the Romans. 

Note 15. Stanza Ixx. 
Ask 76, BoMtian ahadea ! the reaaon why 7 
This was written at Thebcfi, and consequently in the 
best sitiution for asking and answering such a ques- 
tion ; not as the birth-place or Pindar, but as the capital 
of BoMda, where the first riddle was propounded and 
■oiToa* 

Note 16. Stanza Ixxxii. 

Boms bitter oVr the flowers ita bubbling Teoom flings. 

" Medio de fonte lepomm 
gorgit amari aiiquid.quud in ipaia floribua angat." — Lme. 

Note 17. Stanza Ixxxv. 
A traitor only fell beneath the fcod. 
AUuding to the condtict and deaOh of Solano, the 
Goveroor of Cadiz. 

Note 18. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
** War OTen to the knife !'* 
'War to the knife ;" Palafox*s answer to the French 
Ckneral at the siege of Saragoza. 

Note 19. Stanza xci. 

And thou, my friend ! etc 

The honourable I^. W**. of the Guards, who died of 

a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the 

better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. 

In the short space of one montli I have lost her who 

^ve me being, and most of those who had made that 

being tolerable. To me the lines of Youiro are no 

ficticm: 

Insatiate archer ! could not one snfllce I 
Thy ahaA flew thrice, and thrice my peace was 'laifk 



And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd ber horn. 
I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the 
late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing Col- 
lege, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise 
of mine. His powers of niind, shown in the attainment 
of greater honours, against the ablest candidates, than 
those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have 
sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it 
was acquired, while his softer qualities live in the recol- 
lection of firicnds who loved him too well to envy his 
supenority. 



CANTO II. 

Note 1. Stanza i. 
—despite of war and wasting fir^— 
PuKT of the Acropolis was destrcyed by the explosion 
•I a magazine during the Venetian siegis. 



We can all feel, or imagine, the regret 
the ruins of cities, once tlie capitals of empvci^ mt 
bcheU ; the retlections suggested by such olgecli M 
too trite to require recapitulation. But never dkl At 
littleness of man, and the vanity of his Tery best virtH^ 
of patriotism to exalt, and of ▼akrar lo deftod )m 
country, appear more conspicuous than m flw nemk 
of what Athens was, and the certainty of what bIhhv 
is. This theatre of contentioa between ni^y frdMlb 
of the struggles of orators, the eiahation and 
of tjrrants, the triumph and punishment of 
now become a scene of petty intrigue and 
disturbance, between the bickering agents of 
British nobiUty and gentry. ** The wild fines, the oab 
and serpents in the ruins of Babylon,*' were surely iM 
degrading than such inhabitants. The TvakM have tht 
plea of conquest for their tjrranny, and the Greeks hm 
only suflfered the fortime of war, inridenral la Ai 
bravest; but how are the nughty fiJaen, when IM 
painters contest the privilege of plundering the to* 
Ihenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tnaor rf 
each succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punidb, 
subdue, and Xerxes bum Athens ; but it 
the paltry antiquarian, and his despiceble 
render her contemptible as himself ajad tus 

The Parthenon, before its destruction in pen, ^^ 
during the Venetian siege, had been a templei aehnd^ 
and a mosque. In eadi pobt ofview it is anolj^rf 
regard: it changed its worshippers ; but MiD ituMI 
place of worsi Jp thrice sacred to devotioB: iU violitiM 
b a triple sacrilege. Btit 

F" Man, rsin msn, 
'rest in a little biief authority, 
lays such fontavtic tricks belors Idirii lisaisiu 
As make the angels weep.*' 

Note 3. Stanza ▼. 
Far on the aoliuiry abore be sleeps. 
It was not always the custmn of the Greds lo hm 
their dead ; the greater Ajax in particular was almil 
entbre. Almost all the chiefii became gods aftv Aa 
decease, and he was indeed neglected who had Ml M* 
nual games near his tomb, or festivals in hodoor of Hi 
memory by hii cotmtrymen, as Achilles, Brasidafli i0e^ 
and at last even Antinous, whoso death was aa bcnkM 
lus hfe was infamous. 

Note 4. Stanza x. 
Here, son of Batura ! was thy fav'rils tlaoes 
The temple of Jupiter Olympiua, of wUch 
columns entirely of marble yet sunrire: 
were 150. These columns, however, are by 
posed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 

Note 5. Stanza xi. 
And bear tbcae altara o'er the kMff-rstaeCul 
The ship was wrecked in the Archqpeliigo. 

Note G. Stanza zu. 

To rive ^at Goth, and Turk, and ttsM halb spanl 

At this moment (January 3, 1809), beaidee wiMt hit 

been already deposited in London, a HydrioC veiMl ii 

in the Pinmis to receive every poaaibk relic. Thus, ssI 

heard a young Greek observe, in oonmon with msTcf 




CHILDE HAROLD*S PILGRIMAGE. 



87 



hii oouDtiTinen — fbr, Utt/t «■ tbej are, they yet feel on 
Ifais occa.«ion— thus may Lord EU^ boast of having 
nmed Arhcas. An Italian pointer of the first eminence, 
Bund Libieri, is the agent of devastaticMi ; and, like 
ike Greek ^mUr of Verres in Sicily, who fcrflowed tlie 
■■e prufeamo, he has proved the able instrument of 
fimkr. Between this artist and the French consul 
Fiofd, who wishe* to rescue the remains for his own 
lOftrament, there is now a violent dispute concerning 
tcvcmpk>yed in their conveyance, the wheel of which 
—I «iih they were both broken upon it— has been 
bcid 19 by the consul, and Lusieri has laid his coa>- 
phiit bdbre the Wa]rwode. Lord Elgin has been ex- 
Inoiriy bappy in his choice of Signor Lusieri. During 
A readmce of ten years in Athens, he never had the 
corioHtT to proceed as (ar as Suniiun, ' till he accom- 
panied IS in our second excursion. However, his works, 
u(arts ifaey go, are moM beautiful : but they are al- 
aO unfinished. While he and his patrons confine 
Ires to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, 
ikldiing columns, and cheapening gems, their little 
ihwiiliii) I are as harmless as insect or fox-hunting, 
■uka-speechifying, barouche-driving, or any such 
bat when they carry away three or four ship- 
«f the most valuable and massy relics that time 
■d bvbarism have left to the most ii^ured and most 
of cities ; when they destroy, in a vain at- 
to tear down, those works which have been the 
of ages, I know no motive wliich can ex- 
vhich can designate, the perpetrators of 
dastardly devastation. It was not the iMist of the 
laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plun- 
derad Sicily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. 
The WMl unblushing impudence could hardly go fur- 
iber dun to alGx the name of its plunderer to the walls 
cf the Acropolis ; while the wanton and useless deface- 
■c&t of the whole range <^ the basso-relievos, in one 
erjfnpartmcni of the temple, will never permit that name 
to bt> pronounced, by an observer, without execration. 

1 Sow Cape CokHina. In all Attica, if we except Atlwin 
(Mf ud Maratboo. there is no ■ceno more inlerestina than 
Ckpa Colrtnoa. To tlw antiqaary and anut, Mxlera cnlumna 
Ut IS HMxbausiible ■ourci' of obiervation and d<sifm ; to the 
Htfowphtt the nippoeed scene of aome ofPlato'i ronveraa- 
(iiM wil sot be on wd come ; and the travel kr will be itmck 
■ah the beaiitr of the proiveet over " f»U» tkat etvea tie 
■raaa ^TP ;** but for an Enicliahniao, Culonna has yet an 
feiSditiona 1 miCMcm, aa the artiml sputof Falconer's Shipwnick. 
Piltu arid Plato are furf otteo in the recoDeetioo of Falconer 
lei Cvn9»ieU : 

" He-rv! in the deed of nifht, br Lonoa*s steep, 
Tne seanmn's cry was heard akmg the deep. ' 

T'm temple uT Minenra may be been at sea from a freat dis- 
ATtr^. lo ttn> jooroeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape 
.'akKini. the vi^w fruiD either side, by land, was leaa striking 
^1 ikr approach from the isles. In our second land excursion, 
^r bvi a nartuw escape from a party of Mainotiis. concealed 
a 'h* ravems beneath. We were tokl afterwards, by one of 
<h^ prisoners Mhaeqoeatly ransomed, that tbey were deterred 
rum fcnacking ns by the appearance of my two Albanians : 
•'t.:-<-:<jrinr very sagaciously, but fakely, that we had acom- 
"f.i •osnl oftheNe Amaouta at hand, they lemained stntion- 
t'r, fewi riiq« Mved oar party, which was too small to have 
*;o(.*<id iny fflectual resistance. 
Coiopoai i* DO lew a resort of painters than of pirates; there 
" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk. 
And makes degraded Nature picturrsque.** 

(Bee Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, etc) 
)u! :.S(ve \ntare. with the aiid of art, has done that for her- 
^l''. I WM finrtubate eiKMigh to engage a very superior German 
'"^ani and hope to renew my aeqoaintaoce with this and many 
*ha Leraatue srsnns. bjr dM aniva* af his perforaiancas. 



On this occasion I speak impartially: I am not a col- 
Icrlor or admirer of collections, consequenti}' no rind : 
but I have fsonie early prepossessions in favour of Greece, 
and do not think the honour o£ England advanced hy 
plunder, whelh«»r of India or Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done better, because he Iwfl 
done IcKs: but some othent, more «■ less noble, yet 
** all honoiu^ble men," have done beitj because, a^er 
a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to the 
VVa>'wode, minino and countermining, they have done 
nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, 
wliich almost ended in blood-shed ! Lord E.*s " prig," 
— see Jonathan Wykle for the definition of ** priggism,** 
—quarrelled with another, Grvpiut * by name (a very 
good name too for his business), and muttered some- 
thing about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of 
the poor Prussian : this was stated at table to Gropius, 
who laughed, but could cat no dinner afterwards. The 
rivals were not reconciled when I k;fl Greece. I have 
reason to remember their squabble, for they wanted to 
make me their arbitrator. 

Note 7. Stanza xii. 

Her sons too weak the sacrnd shrine to gnaidt 
Yet felt some portion of tboir mother's pains. 

I caiuiot resist availing myself of the porminioo of 
my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name reqtiirefl no com- 
ment with the public, but. whose sanction will add ten- 
fold weight to my testimony, to insert the following ex- 
tract from a very obliging letter of his to mo, as a note 
to the above lines : 

** When the la5t of the Metopes was token iGroro the 
Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the su- 
perstructure, with one oi the triglyphs, was thrown 
down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed ; 
the Disttar, who beheld the mi:ichief done to the build- 
ing, took lii:i pi{>c from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, 
in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, TAe(* 
— I was present." 

The Disdar alluded to was tho father of the preaeot 

Dis lur. 

Note 8. Stanza xiv. 

Wht^m was thine a«is, Pallas! thatappall'd 
i^iprn AInric and havuc on Uieir way f 

According to Zozimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- 
ened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that 
the Gothic kins was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- 
tish i>eer. — See Ciiaivdlek. 

Note 9. Stanza xvili. 
' the nciiMi canopy. 
The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from fall- 
in;; on deck during action. 

Note 10. Stanza xxix. 

Bat not in siicnco paM (.'al>p»o's iales. 

Goza lA said to have been the island of Culypiio. 

1 ThisSr. Gropius wom rmployctl by a noiili* Ijord for tho 
sole purpoM of Hkoirhiiiff, in which he uxrel^ ; l»iii 1 am sorry 
to say, tliat hq ham throu»!h thu aiiUM^I sunrtion oC that most 
respectaliln nnme, b«.>rn tr«viilinf at an huniblo (iintsnct* in ilio 
stetM of Sr. Liitit;ri. A phipfuli or his trophies wn< (iHanuHt, 
and, I believe, contiHCatftd at CuntctHntiiiopto. in IrilU- 1 "<n 
mort happy to bo now riiubi<>d U> Pliil«, that "this wns not in 
his iMind ;'* that he was employed soHy as a pnintcr, and that 
his noble patron dijiavows all connexion with him, except tis 
an artist. If the error in the firnt and »*m".oimI e<liii<»n of tiiis 
poem has given the noblo Ijord a moni«>nt's piin, 1 am very 
sorry for it; Pr. Gropius has awmmed for ycnm «h*» nanio of 
his agent; and. though I cannot much c<indemn mrself fin 
sharing in the mistake of so many, 1 am happy in bving ooa 
of the first to be undcci>ivod. liuleod, I hnvc n* much ? oasura 
in contradicting this as I felt regret in staUng it. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



89 



lyewB put, iHicn I renettibeffed that^arfwrt 
ce tBtf departnre firom EngUnd, a ndble and 
mate a«odate had excused hiimelf fitm uik- 
s of OM becaote he had to attend a reUtkn 
Diosr'a," I felt no less mvprised than honuli- 
bepreeeat occurrence and the past recoOec- 

>arndi would leave me with some regret was 
pected: when master and man have been 
tg over ibe motmlaine of a dozen provinces U>- 
Mj are oawiDinf to separate ; but his present 
nwtrasfeil wAk his native ferodtj, improved 
m of the human heart. I believe this almost 
elit J Is frequent amongst them. One day, on 
ej over Pkmassus, an Englishman in my ser- 
! him a push in some dispute about the bag- 
ich be unluckOy mistook for a blow ; he spoke 
tat down, leaning his head upon his hands, 
kg the eoosequences, we endeavoured to ex- 
ty the aihiiit, which produced the following 
—^ I Aoot 6sea a robber, I am a soldier ; no 
rer atmcfc me ; jioir are my master, I have eaten 
d ; but bj fAot bread ! (a usual oath) had it 
^wise, I would have stabbed the dog your ser* 
gone to the mountains.** So the aflfair ended, 
:hat day forward he iwver thoroughly forgave 
btiess feUow who insulted him. 
1 excelled in the dance of his country, conjeo- 
eareemam of the ancient Pyrrhic: be that as 
is manly, and requires wonderfiil agili^. It b 
net from the stupid Romaika, the dull round- 
Jie Grreeks, of which our Athenian party had 
ipeomens. 

banians in general (I do not mean the cukiva- 
e earth in the provinces, who have also that 
n, but the mountaineeni) have a fine cast of 
ice ; and the most beautiful wom^ I ever be- 
latore and in features, we raw fet«tttng: the 
en down by the torrents between Delvinachi 
diabni. Their manner of walking is truly the- 
nt this strut is probably the effect of the ca- 
joak, depending from ono shoulder. Their 
reminds you of the Spartans, and their cour^ 
sidtory warfare is unquestionable. Though 
some cavalry amongst tlte Gegdes, I never 
td Amaout horseman : my own preferred the 
iddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
ot they are not to be subdued by &tigue. 

Note 18. Stanza xxxiz. 



•D.1 paM*d th« bammapot. 



iVbere lad Peoek>pe o*erlook'd the wave. 

Note IS. Stanza xl. 
Action, Lepaato, fatal Trafalfar. 
I and Trafalgar need no fiirther mention. The 
Lepanto, equaUy bk)ody and considerable, but 
-n, was fought m the gulf of Patras ; here the 
Don Quixote lost his lefl hand. 

Note 14. Stanza xlL 
KtA kaird tbe last resort offroitlflsi kive. 
Sa, now Santa BSaura. From the promoolory 
er's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown ber- 

17 



Note 15. Stanza xlv. 
ojr a Romao chief and Anan kfaiff . 
It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of 
Actinm, Anthony had thbleen kings at his levee. 

Note 16. Stanza xlv. 
Look where tbe lecond Csiar's trophies rose. 
Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of Uie Hippo, 
drome survives in a few fragments. 

Note 17. Stanza xlvii. 

Acherusia's lake. 

According to PouquevUIe, the Lake of Tanina ; but 
Pouqueville is always out. 

Note 18. Stanza xlvii. 
To greet Albaoia** ehief. 

The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary mm 
th^e is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. 

Note 19. Stanza xlvii. 

Tethers and there sonoe dnrine mnnntain band 
Diadain hia power, aod from thoir ri>ckr hold 
Hurl their defiance fikr, nor yield, ooleM to gold. 

Five thousand Sdiotes, among the rocks and na the 
castle of Suli, withstood 90,000 Albanians for eighteen 
years : the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this 
contest there were several acts performed not unworthy 
of the better days of Greece. 

Note SO. Stanza xlviii. 
Monastic Zitza, etc. 
The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' jour* 
ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pa- 
chalick. In the valley the river Kalamas (onco the Ache- 
ron) flows, and not for from Zitza forms a fino cataract. 
The situation is perhaps the finest in (i reece, thougli 
the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acnmania and 
^tolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, 
in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, arc 
very inferior ; as also every scone in Ionia or the Troad : 
I am almost inclined to ndd the approach to Constanti* 
nople, but, from the different features of the last, a 
comparison can hardly be made. 

Note 21. Stanza xUx. 
Here dwells the caloy er. 
The Greek monks are so called. 

Note 22. Stanza li. 
Nature'! volcanic Huiphiibeatrs. 
The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vo 
canic. 

Note 23. Stanza li. 

behold Mack Acheron : 

Now called Kalamas. 

Note 24. Stanza lii. 

in hi* white capote— 
Albonese cloak. 

Note 25. Stanza Iv. 
TTie suo had lunk liehind va>.i TomwiU 
Anciently Mount Tomanis. 

Note 26. Stanza Iv. 
And Laoa wiile and fk-rce came roanng bjr. 
The river Laos was full at the lime the author p 
I it ; apd, nmnediauly above Tepaleen, wai U> th« •iy% 



90 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



wide as the Thanes at Westminster ; at least in the 
opinion of the author and his feUow-trayeDer, Mr. 
Hobhouse. In the summer it mast be much narrower. 
It certainly is the finest river in the Levant ; neither 
AdieloAs, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamonder, nor Cayster, 
i^f>proached it in breadth or beauty. 

Note 27. Stanza IxvL 
And fellow-counU-jrroeD have itood akioC 
AOuding to the wreckers of ComwalL 

Note 28. Stanza bod. 
the red wine ctrdiog fiist. 
The Albanian Mussubnans do not abstain from wine, 
tnd indeed very few of the others. 

Note 29. Stanza bcxi. 

Each Palikar hia ubro from him caaL 

Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 

from HaXtKapi, a general name for a soldier amongst 

tte Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic — it means 

properly " a lad.** 

Note 90. Stanza Ixxii. 
While thiM in concert, etc. 
As a specimen of the Albanian or Amaout dialect of 
die Dlyric, I here insert two of their most popular choral 
■ongs, which arc generally chaunted in dancing by men 
or women indiscriminately. The first words are merely 
a kind of chorus, without meaning, like tnxae in our 
own and all other languages. 

Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; 
Naciarura, popuso. be thou silent. 

Nacianira na dvin I come, I run ; open the 

Ha pe uderini ti hin. door that I may ento*. 

Ha pe uderi escrotini Open the door by halres, 

that I may take my tur- 
ban. 

Caliriotes' with the dark 
eyes, open the gate thaf 
I may enter. 

Lo, lo, I hear thee, my 
soul. 



Ti vin ti mar servetim. 

Caliriote me surme 
£a ha pe pee dua tive. 



Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Gi egem spirta esimiro. 

Calinote vu le tunde 
Ede Tete tunde tunde; 



Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 

Se ta puta citi mora 
(Si mi ri m veti udo gia. 



Va le m il chc cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 

Fiu hari ti tirete 

Pki huron cia pra seti. 



An Amaout giri, in costly 
garb, walks with graceful 
pride. 

Caliriot maid of tlie dark 
eyes, give me a kiss. 

If I have Idssed thee, what 
hast thou gained? My 
soul is consumed with 
fire. 

Dance lightly, more gently, 
and gently still. 

Make not so much dust to 
destroy your embroidered 
hose. 



and shppers but a weO-tumed and nowtinMi vary 
ancle. The Amaout girls are much handsomer tbi 
Greeks, and their dress is fiu" more picturesque, 
preserve their shape much kmger also, from bei 
ways in the opea air. It m to be observed th 
Amaout is not a lontten language ; the words c 
song, therefore, as well as the aae which foUon 
spelt according to their prooundatioa. They are < 
by one who speaks and understands the dialed 
fectly, and who is a native of Atbtins. 



N(U sefda tinde ulavossa 
Vettimi upri vi lo&a. 

Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. 

Uti tasa roba stua 
Sitti eve tulati dua.' 

Roba stinori ssidua 
Qu mi sim vetti dua. 

Qurmini dua civileni 
Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 

Utara pisa vaisisso me simi 

rinti baptu 
Eti mi hire a piste si gui 

dendroi tiltati. 

Udi vura udorini udiri ci- 

cova cilti mora 
Udorini talti hoOna u ede 

caimoni mora. 



I am wounded by tlq 
and have kyved I 
scorch n^elC 

Thou hast consume 
Ah, maid! then 
struck me to the h 

I hkfe said I wish no 
cy, but thine eye 
eyelashes. 

The accursed dowry! 
not, but dieecD^i 

Give me thy chain 
let the portiQQfei 
flames. 

I have k»ved diee, 
vrith a sincere §0 
thou hast leftna 
withered tree. 

If I b«Lve placed nq 
onthyboeoaiywte 
I gaLoed? wj h 
withdrawBy hut i 
the 



The lasi stanza would puzzln a commentator : the men 
have certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, 
but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be 
addressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots 



I Tb« Albsoeio, partlcalarljr the women, ars fieqaeotly 
* CaUcio«es r* for what leasoo I inqofsd in vaia. 



I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a. 
ent measure, ought to belong to another baDsd 
idea sometlung similar to the thought in die last 
was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having et 
contact with one of his " ^iroirsXircsc,*' CritolM 
Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a sb 
pain as far as his shoulder for some days afte 
therefore rery properly resolved to teadi his dii 
in future without toudiing them. 

Note SI. Seng, stanza I. 

Tamboargi ! Tambounri ! thr Maran ato, sle. 

Tliese stanzas are partly taken from diflerant 

nese songs, as far as I was able to make theoi c 

the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and Its 

Note 32. Song, stanza 8. 
Remember the moment when Previaa fUL 
It was taken by storm from the French. 

Note S3. Stanza Ixxiii. 
Fair Greece ! tad relic of departed worth, cH. 
Some thoughts on tliis subject will be fomsf 
I subjoined papers. 

Note 34. Stanza Ixxiv. 

Pnirit of freedom ! when on Phyle*s brow 
Thou 8at*it with Thraaybohis and his train. 

Phyle, which commands a beautiful view ef M 
has still considerable remains ; it Arms seised by 11 
bultis previous to the azptdsion of the Thktr. 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



91 



Note 95. Stanza \xrni. 
lerMTc ihe fiery Fraak, ber former gueeL 
VFben taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
See GiBB03r. 



NoCeSC Staualurii. 
The praphet'e ttMnb of aU iti pious spoil 
Mcces and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
Vihabtes, a sect yearly increasing. 

Note 37. StaniatxxzT. 
Thy Tales ofeTef- g ree n , thy bills of sDovr^ 
Oamany of ike mountains, paiticularly Liakura, the 
Mw Derer is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- 
beat of the summer; buti nerer saw it lie on the 
even in winter. 



Note 38. Stanza IzzzvL 

Save where eume solitary eoluaa moeros 
Above iu prustrate brethren of tbo cave. 

or Mo4iiit Pentelicus, from whence the marble was 

^ that conftructed the public cdificos of Athens. 

The modern name is Mount MendelL An immeoso 

awe formed by the quarries still remains, and will till 

*e cad of time. 

Note 39. Stanza Uixix. 
When Maraihan became a macie word— 
''Siste, Tiator — hcroa calcas!** was the epitaph on 
te ftmous Count Merci ;— what thon must be our 
fcdap when landing on the tumulus of the two 
hndred (Greeks) who f<-B on Marathon? The prin- 
(ipil barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few 
•r as relics, as vases, cstc. were found by the excavator. 
Ike ^ain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at 
Ai sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hun- 
Aed pounds ' Alas ! — ** Expende— quot Ubra$ in duce 
■■■■mi invenics ? '* — was the dust of Miltiadcs worth 
■•■ore 7 it could scarcely have fetched less if sold by 
mmgkL 

PAPERS REFERRED TO BT NOTE 33. 

1. 

Bcfere I say any thing about a city of which every 
kidr, traveUer or not, has thought it necessary to say 
■OKiiiing, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next 
ksrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to 
hve the goodness to marry her to somebody more of 
a {eoticman than a ** Disdar Aga** (who by the by is 
M IB aga), the most impolite of petty officers, the 
{■nits' ]iaiP.>n of larceny Athens ever saw (except I>ord 
E.), anil tfie unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a 
huidmine annual fttipend of 150 piastres (ei^ht pounds 
Kerens), out of which he has only to pay his j^arrison, 
^ most ill-re gidatcd cfw\n in the ill-regulated Otto- 
nan Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was once 
U» caiKe of the husband of "Ida of Athens" nearly 
xAriiig thii bastinado ; and because the said ^ Disdar'* 
n a turbulent hw^band, and beats his wife, so tliat I 
fdnrt and bcM.-^rh Mms Owenson to sue for a separate 
nuAi.'nancc in behalf of "Ida.** Having premised 
^ much, on a matter of such import to the readers 
'^roouuices, I may now leave Ida, to mention her 
katb-plaee. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those 
MKoations which it woold be pedantic and super- 
ftmn to recap i tulate^ Ihe tery aitnation of Athens 



would render it the favourite of all who have e^fcs for 
art or nature. The climate, to me at least, appeared a 
perpetual spring ; during eight months I never i>assed a 
day without being as many hours on horseback ; niin 
is extremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a 
cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Purtugal, 
and every part of the East which I visited, except Ionia 
and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climato 
to our own ; and at Constantinople, where I passed 
May, June, and part of July (18IU), you might "damn 
the climate, and complain of spleen," five days out of 
seven. 

Tlie air of the Morea is lieavv and unwholesome, but 
the mrNnont you pass the isthmus in the direction of 
Megara, the change is strikingly perceptible. But I fear 
Hesiod will still lie found correct in his description of 
a BoxHian winter. 

We found at Livadia an "esprit fort" in a Greek 
bishop, of all free-thinkers! This worthy hypocrite 
rallied his own religion with great intrepidity (but not 
before his flock), and talked of a mass as a "coglio- 
neria." It was impossible to think better of him for 
this : but, for a Boeotian, ho was brisk with all his ab- 
surdity. This phenomenon (with the exception indeed 
of Thebev, the remains of Chxrooea, the plain of 
Ptatea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of 
Trophonius), was the only remarkable thing we saw 
before we passed Mount Cithcoron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least, my com- 
panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- 
sical, bathed in it ) pronounced it to be the fountain of 
Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may 
contradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen 
streamlets, some not of iho purest, before we decided 
to our satiofaction which was the true Castalian, and 
even that had a villanous twang, probably from the 
snow, thoti^h it did not throw us into an epic fever 
like poor Doctor Chandler. 

From Fort Phylc, of which large remains still exist, 
the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymcttus, the^gcan, 
and the Acro|>oli9, hurst u|)on the eye at once ; in my 
opinion, a more glorious prospect than even C intra or 
Istambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, 
the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Atlios, can 
cc(ual it, though so sii|)erior in extent. 

I heard iniicli of the beauty of Arcadia, but, except- 
ing the view from the monastery of Megaspelion (which 
is inferior to Zitza in a command of country), and the 
descent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza 
to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond 
the name. 

" Stcrnitiir, rt dulrrs morions roniiniicitur Arfoi.** 
Virgil could have put this into the moutli of none but 
an Argivc ; and (with reverence be it si>oken) it docs 
not deserve the epithet. And if the Polyniccs of Sta- 
tins, " In mediis audit duo littora campis," did actually 
hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, ho 
had better ears than have ever been worn in such a 
journey since. 

"Athens," says a rclcbralod topographer, " is stiU the 
most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may i* 
Greeref but not of the Greeks; for Joannina, in Epiiuk, 
is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be supv- 
rk>r in thn wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of 
ita inhabitama. The Atheniam are rcmaikv^W Vm 



92 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



their cunning ; and the lower orders arc not improperiy 
characterized in that proverb, which cIos-mm them with 
** the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negro- 
pom." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Irnlians, Germans, R:iffusan<i, otc., there was 
never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the 
Greek character, thoujjh on all other topics they dis- 
puted witli ^reat acrimony. 

M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty 
years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an 
artist, and manners as a gentleman, none who have 
kno^vn him can rufiiiic their testimony, has frequently 
Hoeiared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve 
to be emancipated ; rcasmiing on the grounds of their 
"national and individual depravity," while ho forgot 
that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which 
can only l>e removed by the measure he reprobates. 

M. Roque, a French merchant of rcspoctahiltty long 
Bcttleil in Atheas, asserted with the most amusing 
gravity : " Sir, they are the same canaille that existed 
in tilt dutfs of Themiftocles /" an alarming remark to 
tlie " Laudator temporis acti." The ancients banished 
Themistoeles ; the modems cheat Mon!<>icur Roque : 
thus great men have ever been treated ! 

In short, all the Franks who ore futures, and most 
of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc. of passage, 
came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the 
same grounrls that a Turk in England would condemn 
the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by 
his lacquey, and overcharged by his waslicrwoman. 

Certainly it was nut a little staggering, when the 
Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues 
of the day, who divide between them the power of 
Pericles and the popularity of Clcon, and puzzle the 
poor Waywodo with perpetual di/rurenceii, agreed in 
the utter condemnation, " nulla virtuto rcdemptum," 
of the Greeks in general, and of the Atlicnians in par- 
ticular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it. 
Knowing, a a I do, that there be now in MS. no less 
than five toiirfl of the first magnitude and of the most 
tiircatenintf aspect, all in ty|)ogra]ihical array, by pcr^ 
sons of vrit, and honour, and regular commonplace 
books : but, if I may say this without ofTonce, it seems 
to me ratlier hard to declare so |iosilively and pertina- 
ciously, as almost evcrv bodv has divlarcfl, that the 
Greeks, lN?caiisc they arc very bad, will never be better. 

Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- 
g>'ri<*s and projects ; but, on the other h:in<l, De Pauw 
ond Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their 
domcrifs. 

The Greeks will never bf independent; thry will 
lipver be srivereipns, as herf:l«)fore, and Go.1 forbid th«y 
ever should ! but they mny bn subjects without being 
slaves. Otir colonies arc not inile[»endent, but they 
arc free and industrious, and sueli may Greece bo 
hcroafi or. 

At present, like the Catholics of Ireland, and the 
Jews throughout the \vorl<l, and sueJi other cud^^ellcd 
and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and 
piiysical ills that can afHict himianity. Their life is a 
struggle a)!ain<it trutli; they arc vicious in their own 
defence. I'hey arc so unui'ed to kindness, that when 
th«y occasionally meet with it, tiiey look upon it with 



suspicion, as a dog often beateo snaps at jrour fiifsi 
if you attempt to caress him. '* They are ungrataH 
notoriously, abominably ungrateful !" — this is the {» 
cral cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis ! fijr what m 
they to l)c grateful ? Where is the human being M 
ever conferred a benefit on Greek orGre^? Tlif 
are to l>e gratefiil to the Turks for their fetters, ailll 
the Franks for their broken promises and Ijing ( 
scls. They are to bo grateful to the artist who engni 
their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries 
away : to tltc traveller whose janissary flogs ihcm, ai 
to tho scribbler whose journal abuses them ! This ii Ai 
amount of their obligations to foreigners. 

n. 

Francigran Convm/, Athena, January SS, Iflli 

Amongst the renmants of the barbarous policy of ihl 
earlier acres, are the traces of bondage which yet mM 
indifferent countries; whose inhabitants, howwcrfr 
vidod in religion and manners, almost all agree ia flp 
pression. 

The English have at last compassionated their ir 
groes, and, under a less bigoted govennnen!, wt^ 
probably one day release their Catholic hrethren: M 
the interposition of foreigners alone can emancipaltfti 
Greeks, who, otherwisP| ap|>ear to have as 
chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews I 
from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enoii^; 
at least the younger men of Europe devote anchrf 
their time to tho study of the Greek writers and Usioiy^ 
which would be more usefiiUy spent in mastering ddi 
own. Of tlie moderns, we are perhaps more negleedU 
than they deserve ; and while every man of any |i^ 
tensions to learning ia tinng oiA his youth, and oflsUi 
age, in tlic study ^ the language and of the haraagMi 
of the Athenian demagogues, in favour uf freedom, ihl 
real or supposed descendants of these sturdy repub&BUi 
arc le(\ to the actual tyranny of their mastery ahho^^ 
a very slight effort is required to strike off ttar 
chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their riasg 
again to their pristine superiority, would be riftietikw; 
as ilic rest of tho world must rcsuniu its barbarisra, aftv 
re-asserting the sovereignty of Greece : but there secai 
to bo no very great obstacle, except in the apathy oTlki 
Franks, to their l>econiing a uscfid dc|>cndeDcyi « 
even a free state with a jiropcr guarantee ;—4Uklv 
correction, hov\ ever, l>c it spokt-n, for many qnd wst 
informed men doubt the practicability oven of thi& 

Tho Greeks have never lost their hope, fhooghtb^ 
are now more divided in opinion on tho subject of 
probable deliverers. R elision recommends the Rns 
but they have twice b<'en deceived nn^l abandoned If 
that power, and the dreadful lessr>n they received Af 
the Muscovite dofcertion in the Morra has never bfM 
forgotten. The French they dislike; althtHtsh *■ 
subjiicratinn of the ro«!t of F.umpo i^nll, prohaNj, fci 
attended by the deliv<Tance of continental Gree* 
The islandern Iof»k to the En?lish for siiccvur, as th^ 
have vcrv lately |»ossossed themselves of the tai* 
reiiublic, Corfu excepted. ISut whoever apficar ^ 
arms in thiir hands will be weleon»e ; and when *< 
day arrives, Heaven have mercy on the Onomaos; itaf 
cannot expect it from the Giauitrs. 

But instead of considering what they havo bccSi m' 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



93 



an what ihty. may be— let us lock at them 

it is impenihle to reconcile flie contranety 
some, iMuticuIarly the merchants, decry- 
sks in the strongest language j others, gen- 
Ben, turning periods in their eulogy, and 
rery carious speculations grafted on their 
y which can have no more efiect on their 
than the existence of the Incas on the fin 
I of Peru. 

ingenious person terms them the ** natural 
nglishmen ; another, no less ingenious, will 
sm to be the alUes of any body, and denies 
secant from the ancients; a third, more in- 
I eiilier, builds a Greek empire on a Runian 
ind realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of 
L As to the question of their descent, what 
rt whether the Mainotes are the lineal La- 
ut? or the present Athenians as indigenous 
of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to 
anoe likened themselves 7 What English- 
if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Nonooan, or 
I ? or who, except ^ Welchman, is afflicted 
9 of being descended from Caractacus 7 
Greeks do not so much abound in the good 
is worid, as to render even their claims to 
olgectof envy ; it is very cruel then in Mr. 
» disturb them in the possession of all that 
i them ; viz. their pedigree, of which they 
» tenacious, as it is all they can call their 
mid be worth while to publish together, and 
) worksof Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw, 
mnini ; paradox on one side, and prejudice 
. Mr. Thornton conceives himself to have 
bbc confidence from a fourteen years' resi- 
irn ; perhaps he may on the sulyect of the 
lia can give him no more insight into the real 
Bce and her inhabitants, than as many years 
{»ping, into that of- the Western Highlands, 
ks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and if 
m did not ofrener cross the Golden Horn 
iCher merchants are accustomed to do, I 
» DO great roliaiiee on his information. I 
rd one of these gentlemen boast of their 
I intercourse with the city, and amert of 
I an air of triumph, that he had been but 
: Constantinople in as many years. 
Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with 
Is, they gave him the same idea of Grreece 
jo Berwick in a Scotch smack would of 
t's house. Upon what grounds then does 
be right of condemning by wholesale a body 
rbom he can know little 7 It is rather a cu* 
Mance that Mr. Thornton, who so lavishly 
juqueville on every occasion of mentioning 
as yet recourse to him as authority on the 
terms him an impartial observer. Now Dr. 
is as little entitled to that appellation, as 
m to confer it on him. 

s, we are deplorably in want of information 
ect of the Greeks, and in particular their 
wr is there any probability of our being bet- 
ed, tin our intercourse becomes more inti- 
ir independence confirmed: the relations of 
ollars«ra as little to be depended on as the 



invectives of angry factors ,- but tiU something more 
can be attained, we must be content with the little to 
be acquired frOm similar sources. ' 

However defective these may be, they are preferable 
to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially of 
the ancients, and seen nothing of the modems, such as 
De Pauw ;. wiio, when he asserts that the British breed 
of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spar- 
tans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal know^ 
ledge of English horses and Spartan men. His "phi- 
losophical observations** have a much better claim to 
the title of " poedcaL" It coukl not be expected that 
he who so liberally condemns some of the most cele- 
brated instituti<His of the ancient, should have mercy on 
the modem Greeks : and it fortunately happens, that 
the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers r^ 
fules his sentence on Uiemselves. 

Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of 
De Pauw, and the dixibts of Mr. Thornton, there is a 
reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, 
who, whatever may be the errors of their religion and 
policy, have been amply punished by three centuries 
and a half of captivity. 

m. 

Athens, Franeiaean Convent, March 17, 1811. 
" f mutt have some talk with this leamcd Tbehan.** 
Some time after my return from Constantinople Ut 
tlus dty, I received the thirty-first number of the EdJn 
burgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at this 
distance an acceptable one, firom the Captain of an 
English firigate off Solamis. In that number, Art. S, 
containing the review of a French translation of Strabo, 
there are introduced some remarics on the modem 
Greeks and their literature, with a short account of 
Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On those 
remarks I mean to ground a few observations, and 
the spot where I now write will, I hope, be sufficient 
excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree 
connected with the subject. Coray, the most celebrated 
of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was bom 



1 A wrord, en passanU with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouqae> 
viUe, who have been goiltf between them of sadly clipping 
the 8uluin*s Turkiah. 

Dr. Pouquevilte tells a long story of a Moalcni who iwad 
lowed corrosive sublimate, in luch quantities that he acquired 
the name of " Suteyman Yeptn,** i. e. qnoth the doetor, 
"SuUjfm^Mt tAe eattr <tf eorrosme 0ubUmaU.*^ "Aha,** 
thinks Mr. Thornton, (anirry with the doctor for the fiftieth 
time) "have I caught you?*'— Tben, in a note twice the 
thickness of the doctor's anecdote, he question* the doctor's 
profiewncy io the Turkish tongue, and his veracity io bis own. 
— " For," obtferves Mr. Thornton, (after inflicting on us the 
tough participle of a Turkish verb), "it means nothing more 
than SuUpman the eater,** and ouite cashiera the supple> 
mentary " tubUmnte.** Now both are right and both are 
wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when he next resides " fourteen 
yeaiB in the factory." will consult his Turkiiih dictionary, or 
ask any of his Stamboline aoquaintance, he will diacover that 
" ^ilfitma'n ysyem," put together discreetly, mean the 
*' SteaUoieer of sublimate,** without any " HiUevman'* in the 
case ; " Suleffma'* signifying ' corroaive enhlimate,'* and not 
being a proper name on this occaaion, allhouffh it be an or- 
thodox name enough with the addition uf n AfVer Mr 
Thornton's frequent hints of profound orientahdin, he might 
have found this out before he sang such paeaus over Dr 
Pouqueville. 

After this, I think " Travellers vernit Factors" shall tm 
our motto, though the above Mr. Thornton has oondemnoH 
"hoc genus omne," lor niiitako and misrepresentation. " No 
Sator ukra crepidam." "No merchant bi<ynnd hi* bales.* 
N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton *Sutor" la ow a 



94 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



at Scio (in the Review Smyrna ii stated, I have reason 
to think, incorrectly), and, besides the translation of 
Bcccaria, and other works mentioned by the reviewer, 
has published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may 
trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately 
arrived from Paris ; but the latest we have seen here 
in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolikoffloon. * 
Coray has recently been involved in an un|)lcasant 
controversy witli M. Gail,' a Parisian commentator and 
editor of some translations from the Greek poets, in 
consequence of the Institute having awarded him the 
prize for his version of Hippocrates ♦* Utpl iidruVf''* 
etc. to the disparagement^ and consorjuently displeasure, 
uf the stud Gail. To his exertions, literary and patriotic, 
^ruat i>raise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise 
ought not to be withheld from the two brothers Zoeimado 
(merchants settled in Leohoru), who sent him to Paris, 
and maintained him, for the express purpose of eluci- 
dating the ancient, and adding to tlte modern researches 
of his cf)untrymcn. Coray, however, is not considered 
by his countrymen equal to some who lived in the two 
last centuries : more particularly Dorotheus of Mity- 
lene, whose Hellenic writings are so much esteemed by 
the Greeks, that Meletius terms him, " yiira rdv 
OovKvfliijyKal s^votpiivra aptvroi 'EAX^yuiv." (P. 224. 
Ecclesiastical HiMlury, vol. iv.) 

Panagiotes Rodrikas, the translator of Fnntenelle, 
and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on 
the Universe info French, Christo<loulus, and more 
particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in 
Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. 
The last-mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin 
a work on ** True Happiness," dedicated to Catherine 
H. But Polyzois, who is stated by the reviewer to be 
the only modern except Coray, who has distinguished 
hiinscM* by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Poly- 
zois Lanipanitziotes of Yaiiina, who has published a 
numl>er of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor 
Icbs than an itinerant vender of books ; with the con- 
tents of which he had no concern beyond his name on 
the titlf-pngi?, placetl there to secure his property in the 
publication, and he was, moreover, a man utterly des- 
titute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, how- 
ever, is not unci>nunon, some other Polyzois may have 
edited the Kpistles of Arisia*netu8. 

It is to be regretted that the system of continental 
blockade has closed the few channels through which 
the Greeks reci-ivcd their publications, particularly 
Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for 
children are b<.>cf)me too dear for the lower orders. 
Aniong<(t their original work^, the Geography of Mele- 
tius, Archbi!<ho|) of Athens, ami a multitiule of theo- 
logical quartos and poi-tical pain[ihletN, are to be met 
with : tlii-ir grammars and lexicons of two, three, and 
tour lnn:;uages, arts nunK:ruiis and excellent. Their 

1 T Invf in my poiw>4!<ion an ex'<fllt!nt Lcxinm "''pi- 
y^ioctrof, whiirh 1 r»T«'ivi-iI in fxrlmnirf fnmi 8. G— . Em]., 
(••r n •.iiiiill ircin r my anli4|uiirian iVipnUi* hove DPVtfr tbrnotten 
'. ii- '"iirsjivon iiw. 

J Im (iiiil'v ^Mimphloi figninnt (Turay. he talks of "Ihrowins 
(••■■ iii:«tilT('ni Hfllpniwru out of thi) winiiowN." On thm a 
Kpiu'i niiic i'xrl:innp, "Ah. my (mmI! ihrow a Hrllnnide 
nut <tt' tli>- wIihIiiw ! what M:icril«>i{e !" It rt^riainly would lie 
R wMiiun liudin**iis for ihnNo authurit wImi iIwpII in tl:« HUir*: 
but I li:iv»> f]nuii>ii thu pniuaigM mtrrrly to prove ih<> itimilarity > 
•iC fly Id anionr ihi.> rontrovt'riinlintii of nj| poJiiilHtri roitntries : 
I«oniInr or Edinburgh couU hardly paraUel ihb Parisian 



poetry is in rhyme. The most mngular piece I hA%« kidtf 
seen, is a satire in dialogue between a Rusiiin, Ev|> 
Ibth, and French traveller, and the Waywode of W^ 
lachia (or Blackbey, as they term lum), an archbdlMfy 
a merchant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in iiM» 
sion ; to all of whom mider the Turks the writer ailfr 
utes their present degeneracy. Their songs are «■» 
times pretty and pathetic, but their tones genenljf 
tmpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the best is the ham 
" ^t^Tt iraiicf r&v 'EXX^vwv,** by the unibrluiiale Bip. 
But from a catalogue of more than sixty authariy MV 
before me, only fifteen can be found wbo have IomM 
on any theme except tiieok>gy. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek tf 
Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrangeneRl^ 
if [lossible, for printing in London a translation of Bl^ 
thelemi*8 Anacharais in Romaic, as he has no <Atf 
opportunity, unless he despatches the MS. to Tiertft 
by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The reviewer mentions a school estaUisbed it ! 
toncsi, and suppressed at the instigation of 
he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, HaivaK ; a 
on the continent where that institution, for a 
students and three professors, still cssts. It is tni^ 
that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, mitt 
the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were eooslriMti^ 
a fortress instead of a college ; but on invetiigttifl^ 
and tlic payment of some purses to the Divan, it kH 
been permitted to continue. The principal profteHi^ 
named Veniamin (i. e. Benjamin), is stated to ba t 
man of talent, but a free-thinker. He was bm ■ 
Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of HeDM^ 
Latin, and some Frank languages, besides a iinalUiin 
of the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter fejiher on Ail 
topic than may allude to the article in question, I o^ 
not but observe that the reviewer's lamentation over ihi 
fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he dosn il 
with these words : ** the change U to he attiibtited Is Mr 
mtK/ftrluneHf rather than to any pkyncal Hegradadmt^ 
It may be true, that the Greeks are not phjrsically di* 
generated, and that Constantinople contained, m Ai 
day when it changed masters, as many men of iii M 
and upwards, as in the hour of prosperity ; but i 
history and modem politics instruct us that 
more than physical perfection is necessary to 
a slate in vigour and independence ; and the Gfs eh ^ 
in particular, are a melancholy example of the near cob* 
nexion between moral degradation and national dee^ 

The reviewi-r mentions a pltm, "ine Artierc,** by Pe* 
temkin, for the purification of the Romaic, aad I km 
endeavoured in vain to procure any li<lings or traeeeef 
its existence. There was an academy in St. Peier4H| 
for the Greeks : but it was stip|)ressed by Paul, aad kM 
not been revived by his successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a s^oTAi 
pen, in p. 5R, No. xxxi, of the Edinburgh Review, what 
these words occur : — " We are toM that when tfab eipi* 
til vf the Eaxt \'ielded To. Sahfmam^ — It may be p^ 
sunifNl that this ln<it word will, in a future edilioiH kt 
altered to Mahomet II. ■ The "ladies of ConstantiDepK* 

1 In a forniMr number of the Ediabargh Rcvktw, I8QSL ilii 
ob4<'rvcd, "Lord Byron pawed wiiihi of his early FMB ■ 
Sriiilnnil, whfte he inicht have ktamed that pArmek doai I 
nwnn a boMpipr, any more than tfiMt aeaiw a. 
—Was it in BcuUand that lbs fooof , 




CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIHAGE. 



I ban iapacei (be bin oT an Albaniui.'' I 
«<• how ilui nighi be, but un ■»; nnjiki 
paml, and ibe Alhrniua a pulieutyr, m 
««d 1 boig &r frttn choicd dllia in that dij 
f ■■JLiii, u Uw whols Ank nee u« bubui 
mA: 

" a AhH wfT^ x"(M 



iH •Aocd la copy tbs puiilf of Ihe Attic mcddi 
^■mr mar be uktIrI oo the wlvecl, il i> diffic 
axon ihU Iba " luCn oT ConUotunple," in 1 
H {fltae lul Caaar, npakt a purs dialscl Ihca An 



ThK il BDW in Alhona a pupil oT Pialidi'i, who 
t^mf a lour Btf* obaerTaliDn through Gneca : ba i> 

rfaM Mllcgtia. I rMntiaa thia aa a prooT Ihal i 
fit if in)uir7 ia dm donnaiit aimp|it iba Greeka. 

hiadUpoain "Harm lonicB,"amqiiib6ed login i 
Ul d Ituae Domiual Rtjniana and degcneraUi Gm 
■dalnaflbnr language: bin Mr. Wright, tbougl 
ftftntMtn atala nno, hu nuda a mialaka whi 
kaiin dw Albuiiaa ^alect of Iha Ramie to tppiD 



iHtfin, nr IlK Italian of Naplea. Yamm (irhi 
ttp ui Fanal, the Grcoli ia pived), aJlhou^h 
opal li" Ab Pacha'a dominio™, ii not in Albuia 
Cf*™; and beyoiid Delrinachi in Albania Pmper 
B ir^rrmalm and Tepaleeo (beyond which I did 
klniKf ), ibcT ipnb none Greeli than eren the Ath 
■■■ r wu uieadH] for I Tear and a half by two 

n or their eountryii 




le Bey at Connth, wrii 

la Co^ Bactd, and ochen by 

in oflheCatmacaniof the Mma (wluch 

H ia Veli Pacha'a abaenct) are aaid lo be la>i 

ten tnrxrf Aa" SWjjjaa™.«J/aa.ai« //. 

— Jiaalia ■■med an cumcitelr^a laM a^lba tm (I 

fTftTw fnai iba former p*fm i^rlMlltffarT lemUianI, 
f AaaU bar* paard lE avvTMailh*1ril,liad[iHitjwm 

— ' partindailja tieenl line, wlwra wmdi 
■a hHIilT banBdn m a iliabl •Hliin 



imena of their epiiloU/j MylB. I (lao rtceirad 
CanatautinopLa from priTala paraoiiBf writUn 
t hjrpeibolical alyle, but in Cbo irae aniiqiN 

iviewer pnJceeda, after aome remarka on tba 
ita pan and preaenl alate, to apaimdoi (paf« 
he greal mjaciiier [he knowledge of bia own 
hai done to Coray, »ho, it aeama, ia Isai likalr 
land rhe ancient Greek, becauae he ia perfect 
fthe modem! Thu obenra^oa Mow* a pu*- 
xonuneoding, in ciplicil tenu, the aludy t£ 
lie, ai " a powerful auiiliary," not coly to tbo 
and Ebrei|;n merchant, but aiao to Ibe c La fica l 
in aborl, lo every body eicepl the ooiy peraon 
be Ibortiughly acquainted with ita uica : and 
1y of reasoning, our old language ia conjecturod 
DbaUy more attainable by "ronignen" Ihan 
>ei : Now 1 am inclined 10 think, Ihal ■ Diaeh 
our tongue (albeit himaelf of Saiea bloood) 
I aadly perplcicd with ■'fiirTriHTeni,''or«B7 

thai none but a native con ai ' 
complelo, knowlodjie of m 



I do SnioUett'a Liamahago, who 
at Engliflli ia spoken in Edin- 
I err is lery possible ; bul if be 



on Strabo^fl liantlaton, and here 1 cloeB n(y 

V. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Abeidcea 
rke, Caplsin Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole 
.y Gthcra now in England, have all the requiaito* 
Il di'taila of ihii fillcn people. The few obao^ 

hnie offered 1 thonld liaie left whore I mwla 
id not the article in question, and, abora tO, 

where I read it, induced me to advert to IboiB 



.'C Ibnnerly published, but nmply (Km 
prtiprieljF of railing up private reaail- 
juijutHHi of iha prevent kind, andmor* 
a distance of lime and place. 

E, ONTHETUBKB. 

-ullies of travelling in Turkey have been miicn 
!d, or rather have consideraUy diminiihod of 
The Muaaulinana havo been beaten into a 
lien civility, very comTonablc to voyageia. 
.anIoiiB lo lay much un the suhjecl of Turka 



11 my own alight eiperionca 
lubiiiil lo make ; but aui in- 



96 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Athens, and now of Tbebcs, was a ban vivant, and as 
social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
table. During the carnival, when our English party 
were masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
more happy to ** receive masks" than any dowager in 
Grosvenor-square. 

On one occasicm of his supping at the convent, his 
friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried 6rom 
table perfectly qualiiied for any dub in Christendom, 
yrbSle the worthy Waywode himself triumphed in his 
faU. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever 
found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. 
Ia transacting business with them, there are noae of 
those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, dif* 
ference of exchange, commission, etc. etc, uniformly 
found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bilb, even 
on the first houses in Pera. 

With regard to presents, and established custom in 
the East, you will rarely find yourselt a loser ; as one 
worth acceptance is generally returned by another of 
similar value — a horse or a shawL 

In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers 
are formed in the same school with those of Christian- 
ity; but there docs not exist a more honourable, 
friendly, and high-spirited character than the true Turk- 
ish provincial Aga, or Moslem country gentleman. It 
is not meant here to designate tlie governors of towns, 
but those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess 
lands and houses, of more or less extent, in Greece and 
Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as 
the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to 
civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our 
country towns, would be more incommoded in England 
than a Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. Regi- 
mentals are the best travelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religion, and different sects 
of Islamism, may be found in D'01isson*s French ; of 
their manners, etc, perhaps in Thorton's finglish. The 
Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people to bo 
despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are 
superior to the Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce 
what they are, we can at least say what they are no< ; 
they are not treacherous, they are not cowardly, they 
do not bum heretics, they are not assassins, nor has an 
eihemy advanced to their capital. They are faithful to 
taev sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, and devout 
to tneir God without an inquisition. Were ihey driven 
from St. Sophia to-morrow, and the French or Russians 
enthroned in their stead, it would become a question, 
whether Europe would gain by the exchange. England 
would certainly bo the loser. 

With regaru to that ignorance of which they are so 
generally, and somctiines justly, accused, it may be 
doubted, always excepting France and England, in what 
useful points of knowledge they are excelled by other 
nations. Is it in the common arts of Ufe 7 In their 
manufactures 7 Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo 7 
or is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed and 
•aught, than a Spaniard 7 Are their Paclias worse edu- 
natcd than a grandee 7 or an Eflcndi than a Kni^t of 
bu Ju;i!0 7 1 think not. 

1 remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
a«kmg whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in 



the upper or lower House of ParliamenL Now tUf 
question from a boy of ten years old proved diat Hi 
education had not been neglected. It may be duuMri 
if an English boy at that age knows the diflTereoot tf 
the Divan from a College of Derrises ; but I am fi^ 
sure a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, Mh 
rounded, as he had been, entirely by his Turioah tnlod^ 
had learned that there was such a thing as a paiii^ 
ment, it were useless to conjecture, unless we snppON 
that his instructors did not confine hit studies to III 
Koran. 

In an the mosques there are schools estaUUM 
which are very regulariy attended ; and the peer M 
tau^t without the church of Turkey bong pat ■ 
peril. I bebeve the system is not yet printed (t 
there is such a thing as a Turkish inreas, and 
printed on the late military institution of the Niaa 
Gedidd): nor have I heard whether the Mufti snd ikl 
Mollas have subscribed, or the Cumacam and dN 
Teflerdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingemotf 
youth of the turban should be taught not to "pnyli 
€rod their way." The Greeks, also— a kind of EaMff 
Irish papists— have a college of Uieir own at MaynolA 
— no, at Haivali ; where the heterodox receive mtA 
the same kind of countenance from the OttomsB ■■ 
the Catholic cdlege from the English legislature. Wk* 
shall then affirm that the Turks arc ignorant bigM^ 
when they thus evince the exact pro{iortion of Ckri^ 
tain charity which is tolerated in the most prospcnM 
and orthodox of all possible kingdoms 7 But, tha>|jh 
they allow all this, they wiH not suffer the Gredts If 
participate in their privileges : no, let them fight thar 
battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed ■ 
this worM, and damned in the next. And shall «• 
then emancipate our Irish Helots 7 Mahomet fbiWI 
We should then be bad Mussulmans, and wt)rse Ckiii* 
tians ; at present wo unite the best of both— jesuibeal 
faith, and something not much inferior to Turiddh 
toleration. 



APPENDIX. 



Amongst an enslaved people, obliged to have i 
to foreign presses even for their books of religion, it ii 
less to be wondered at that we find so few pubfieatkH 
on general subjects, tlion that we find any at aH TIm 
whole nunil>cr of the Greeks, scattered up and dowp 
the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may amount, ■ 
most, to three niillions ; and yet, for so scanty a onB" 
bcr, it is impossible to discover any nation with N 
great a proportion of books and their authors, as dN 
Greeks of the present century. ** Ay," but say ihl 
generous advocates of o;ipression, who, while they a^ 
sort the ignorance of tlie Greeks, wish to prevent dioi 
from diiipclling it, " ay, but these are mostly, if tut 
all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good fii 
nothing." Well ! and pray what else can they miN 
about 7 It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, paitie* 
ularly an Englishman, who may abuse the gofenh 
ment of his own country ; or a Frenchman, who toaj 
abuse every government except his own, and whoiaaj 
range at will over every philosophical, religious, fdcih 
tific, sceptical, or moral sutgect, sneering at the QnA 
legends. A Greek roust not write on politics, and ca^ 
not touch on science for want of instruction; if ki 



CmLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



97 



licatod Mad darned; thareibre 
en »re aoC pdaoiied with modem philoso- 
U»iBoraU,tliaiiki to the Turks! there are 
a. What then is left him, if be haa a turn 
? Rdi|;ian and holy biography : and it is 
;h that those who have so btUe in this liie 
> the aezL It is no great wonder then that 
B now beibre me <^ fifty-five Greek wri- 
'whom were lately living, not above fiAeen 
touAed on any thing but rdigion. The 
oded Id is contained in the twenty-sixth 
I fiwrth Tohime of Mdetius^s Ecdesiastical 
om this I subjoin an extract of those who 
sufagects ; which will be followed 
of the Romaic 



r OF ROMAIC AUTHORS. > 
, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has 
eitensive grammar, anid also some politi- 
iSy which last were left unfinished at his 

, of Moseopolis (a town in Epin»), has 
obBsbcd a calalogoe of the learned Greeks, 
of Periclea, is the author of many works 
di language, but Greek character, for the 
C Caramaiua, who do not speak Romaic, 



I PhaKJas, of Bucharest, a physician, made 
England for the purpose d[ study (;(dptv 
but though his name is enumerated, it is 
lat he has written any thing. 
Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople : 
I of tes are extant, and also prose tracts, 
gae of patriarchs since the last taking of 
pie. 

s Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal 
Warsaw. A church biographer. 
I Pamperes, a MoscopoUte, has written 
, particularly '* A Commentary on Hesiod*s 
erculcs,*' and two hundred talcs (of what is 
i), and has published his correspondence 
ebraicd George of Trebizond, his contem- 

aeeldirated geographer; and author of the 
'hence these notices are taken. 
f, of Mitylenc, an AristotrJian philosopher : 
works are in great repute, and he is esteemed 
Bras (I quote the words of Meletins) /trrd 
i^v Km} Ztvo^^rra ipiTOi il^X^twv. I 
', on the authority of a well-informed 
be was so ftmous amongst his countrymen, 
ere aeeostoroed to say, if Thucydides and 
rere vranting, he was capable of repairing 



uount Tharboures, of Cephakmia, professor 
r in the academy of Padua, and member of 
■y and those of Stockholm and UpsaL 
lUMhed, at Venice, an account of some 
■al, and a treatise on the properties of 

brother to the former, fomous in mechanics. 



He removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on 
wliich the statue of Peter the Great was fixed m 1769. 
See the dissertation which he published in Paris, 1777. 
George Constantino has 'published a four-toogued 
lexicon. 

George Ventote ; a lexicon in French, Italian, and 
Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and 
Romaic, French, etc., besides grammars, in every 
modem language, except English. 

Amongst the living airthors the following are moat 
celebrated:' — 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetorie 
in Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, aiylcamanian, has pubUsbed, in Vi- 
enna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- 
lator of Fontenelle's " Plurality of Worlds " ( a favourite 
work amongst the Greckii), is stated to be a teacher of 
the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris, in both of 
which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhet- 
oric. 

Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written ** i/s 
H itt99idp6apoVf^ on logic and physics. 

John Kamarases, a Byzanune, has translated into 
fVench Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be an 
excellent Hellemst and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geo 
graphical woric : he has also translated several Itafisa 
authors, and printed his versions at Venice. 

Of Coray and Psalida some account has been already 
given. 



GREEK WAR SONG.* 

1. 

AEt TE va7Se( rdy 'EXAi^i^y, 

JLt ^av&ncv i^iot ixtlviav 
iro9 /iif 6wrav r^v ap^^v* 

ki xar^vw^tv iv&pttias 
rftv (vydv rfls TvpavvUof* 

fccJi/cifffw/icy xarpiios 
KaOt Svttios aia-)(jp6¥* 

IIoraftiMy i^^Qv rd alua 

2. 

60ev ueBt rStv EXA^wv 

kSkkoXu iv^ptiutiiiva ; 
Xlve^para ivKopnttrftivaf 

rttipa XilGiTC TTvo^v ; 
'S rfiv (fnavitv rijj traXmYy^i pov 

evva^OilTi S\a Upov, 
Thv hrdXoipov ^tiTclrt, 

Koi VlKUTt Vpi XaVTOd* 

TH 8i:\a S{ \d6upnff etc. 



that dM names fiveo are not in ehro- 
cr. bol eowisi of sorm selected at a venture fitm 
m wfiM flourished from the takiof of Cbostanti- 
MOfllslM.^ 



1 Tbeee names are not uken from anr vobKeation. 
9 A trsoslstiOT of this song Will be feoad at vaia il% 



98 



BYRON'S WORKa 



5. 

Zirifpra, TrdprUf H roi/iffffCf 

vvitnaj(^ov warroriip^v, 
tlvOvfiiivov AtuvtSov 

To9 aripvt iratvtftiroVf 
foStpod Koi rpofitpot, 

4. 

6 rov c?( rdf Ocp/fOT<SXac 

roXe/iov abrif Kporilf 
Koi rov( n/ptfa; i^aW^ci 

ica2 airurv ffaraic/>arci. 
M? TptaKOotovf av^paff 

lis ri xivrpov irpoj^^upUf 
Kolf w( X/wy ^/iw/i/vof, 

cf( ri a7/i<( rwv fiovril, 

Ti ffirXa i3( Xitfw/icv, etc. 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

fff54r<ro() AyyXof, ica2 TaXXos Kdpvorrts r^v n^^/Vftv 
ri|f 'EXX(i^o(, Kal PXinoms r^ dOXfav rih* Kord- 
araetVf clputnifrav Karap^is 2va FpaiK^v ^XAX^ra 
fiA yd pdO^vv lipf alrlaVf pier* avT6¥ Ipa itiTpowoXtr^Vf 
tira Zva /JXij^rci/y, ixcira tva wpaypararr^ ui Iva 
wpoiardTam 

E/ir/ fia(, w ^iXAXfrva, irflf 0/p(i( r^v <r«Xa^/ay 
va2 r^ arapi}Y6pfiTov tQv ToipXuv rvpawfav, 
ird( rate (v\aU Kal Mpurpo^s Kal vtiiipoSteiilav 
irafi^wVf rapBivutPf yuvatrwy jy^KOvorov ^Oopc7av« 
A^v /TXy ffffjj lir^yovoc ixihw rdv flXXifvwy 
rSy «Xct-0//j(iii' ra) aoip&v Ka\ rHv ^iXorarpc^wv, 
ra2 rw; Ikuvoi ivlOvijaxov ytd riiv iXsvOtpltiv 
Kol rwpa tails h-rdKtteOe tls rlroiav rvpawlaVf 
Kal roTov y fvos u>( tatis icrddn (ptartaftlvov 
lis rfiv eoifilaVf cvvaptVj els k* SXa ^aKOvvphtv 
vdf vDy UaTaari^an r^v ^wri y^y EXXi^. 
0a6d ! us iva ffxiXcBpov, ivf vKoruvilv Xafiwdimv 
OptXuf tptXrare Tpatxi^ ilni pas ritv alrlaVf 
/til Kp^jtrjis rirorts ^p&Vf \iit rhv dvoplawm 

6«»IAE'AAHN0Z. 

'Fw9(r>ayyXo-yiXXoi, t^XXd^i Kal S)^i SSXoif 

^rovf tis XlrCf w6aov ptyd\ri» 

yOr f.i (idXto, Kal ava^ia 

i^P ov ap^i9tv H ipaOla, 

Sa iipnopoUffav vd ri^v ^vty^ffif 

ro9r* i/( rd ;^c7poy rSiv biiiyoiiat* 

alih (rrtyrf^ci, rd rlKva Kpd^it, 

ord vd TpoKSrrovv SXa xpoerd^cif 

Kal r6T iXxt^tt Srt Ktpii^et 

ihpilv Uitvo iroD rffv tpXaytl^ct, 

Xlii Sorts ToXp^oci vd r9iv ^vrv^vji 

vdytt erSv dSr/y X'^P^^ ^^^^ Kpiaiu, 

T1i6 above is the commencement of a long dramatic 
natire on the Greek pnetthood. princet, aud gentry ; ii 
ia contemptible aa a oompoaitioii, but perhapa curious 
MB a tpecimen of theirifaynw ; I haT« tfa« whole in MS. 




but this extract wiB be feond aiifficiiiBe . Th» 
in this composition b so easy aa to render a 
insult to a scholar ; but thoae wbo do not 
the original will excuse the foOowing bad 
what is in itsdf indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, En^ishman, and FVenchmaa, nalay Ai 
tour of Greece, and observing the niaerabSeiMirf 
the country, interrogate, in tin, a GtediL p•ini^ li 
learn the cause; afterwards aa ArcfabUom ikai 
Vladdwy,* a Merchant, and CogiaBachi or 



Thoa frieod of thy coantry ! to i 
Why bfisr ye Dm juke of Ihs OitoiMa loid T 
Why besr ye tk«M fetrars Hum uaeljr diiphy*4 
Th« wroof* of the matroo, the slripliaff. sad asi 
The deKendsnta of Hellas's rsea are not ye! 
The pauiot aom of Um lace sad the ftvo. 
Thus w^naxi from the blood of the noble sad I 
To vilely eziat aa the Muaanlmaii alave ! 
Not such weiv the fathera yoor amak can 
Who conquer 'd and died for the ftcedoai yea ta*! 
Not aoch was your lead io her ear liar how. 
The day-atar c^natioaa in wiadoas tad powwl 
And alill will you thui onreaiatmf iBeieasBi 
Oh shaawful dwhoDour ! the darkoea of Grsaflil 
Then tell ua, beloved Arh««ii ! reveal 
The cauM of the woea which you eanaot c eecsai 



The reply of the Philellenist I have not < 
it is no better than the question of the travdfag li* 
virate ; and the above will sufficiently show wiihi idrt 
kind of composition the Greeks are now saliiiii I 
trust I have not much ii^jured the original ia thifti' 
lines given as faithfiiHy, and aa near the '*Oh,r~ 
Bailey! unfortunate Mias Bailey!** nwaaneif ii 
Romaic, as I could mako them. Ahnoet all Ihsir | 
above a song, which aspire to the name of pos^^ci^ 
tain exactly the quantity of feet of 

" A captain bold of Halifax who lived in eonnlry ( — '*^' 

which is, in fact, the present heroic couplet of tttl^ 
maic 



SCENE FROM 'O KA«EN^ 

THAHSLATKD mOM TRK ITALIAK OW eOUMM ^ 
SPIRXDOir TLAITTI. 

ZKHNH Kr. 

n AATZI AA ds r^ rdprmv reS x«»«e>, nd tl Iph^ 

IIAA. iteUl dvSrS wmpoB^pt /io> i^dvn vd htdm 
rkv f wy^ roS dwSpds pvw Sv mhrU cTmc M^ f^Aassi' 
Katpdv vd rSv ^trrpowtdvm. [Eiyaiyti hrmt ia tt sfW 
r) ipyavT^pi,] IlaXicd/)!, wis fissy 9t vopautsJUfc ssA 
cTvat mi ds iKthnns rois drrdics ; 

A OTA. T^f ( ;^pi^i^e( iTy^f. ^imt i Kiplkf^ 
yi0f, h ttXX»s a Kbp Mdpwfs NcavoXcndaec^ tudirfbH 
b Kip Him AiavSpos kpihmn. 

IIAA. Avdptva ds ulmis ihf gJvm* k ♦ J U a^ tfft^ 
ipms i'v JfXXo^cv ivopm, 

AEA. ^dQli KaXii Hx^ rel cdp R&yca^ee. [!»■ 
vttrraS'] 

6aoi. Vd ^, vd ^. 

IIAA. Ai-^s that i Mpat {an ;^/}( AXs Isl^ 
avOpioirti Kdpt pov rf/v X^phf vd pti ^wrp^ftiw^ HrfM 

IVlackbe) Prinoa of WaUaehia 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



99 



ktrdr.) [T#r ifx^u is) r) IfyiurrH^t ro9 rai- 



PLl. Ko^l, Kmflt^ Kdfurt nXh* KOfhikwj ih tlvat 

BIT. kym tMdv^i vd; «Yc9a/rw. [Zov//>;(^cra< 
4{ lip Inrrlr rff.] 

(Afi ni xmpdBvpa rOv hrriimv ^ivorrui IXoi, 
fcrai «9c4Mnrr«A ivt r) rpaW^c ovy^ioyiliwf, 3«d 
riv ^•^vwfUiw r«9 Atdvipov fiXimvraf r^v 

Itr. 6:(i, mB^n. 

Map. m^ KdfKvtrt:, 

AEl. S^fra, ^^ is* iJM. 

IlAA. B«f0ua, $»^ua [^€6yu a«d rih' ^KtfXav, & 

[TPi. M2 fM widn nt ^yl lii n(av wtr^ira inji^ 
itiritafmBiptf c«2 ^c^/ci ds riv Ka^tvi.] 
(nil. Eiyo/wi i«d t) //iyatfr4/>( roi ratyyi^toS 

[Err. Mj mpfimrm Ut r^ ^/pi rp^ ita^irmvtv riji 
JDdrfyUif it^rtiev r«S AtdvipcVf bwe9 rfiv Kararph 

[Mi P. Ef/«i/Mi Kt^ ahr^ ctyi ^tyti ix6 t6 ipya- 
n^ff ui ^<^u Xiy^mi' Runioret fuge.] [Povfi^pcc 

[OiZUSXat ird t) i(»yao7iipt ivtpvodw tU r^ X^^^* 
■1 c^uimr ritr w6pra9.] 
[BIT. M/w« <i( Hv Ka^tvi fionBnpivn M Hv 

AE4. ASnrt rirom' 3Aw rd SftBid vi IpSit tig 
^p»Hj^dn. [Mi rd ova62 tig r) j^lpi ivavrlov rot 
%»»».] 

Etr. 6;|^i, /til yhoif vori* deal tvaf vxX^poKdpiof 
'"''^ ^ yvracjc^ 909, ca) /yti ^Aci r^ iia^tvrticu 
HUiri Wrtpow atpa, 

A£A. £*v Kiffwi0 ipxov «i|c 3Au ri ftrrayoffaMnif. 
[Innryf riir Zhyhtiov p.i t6 axmBt.\ 

Eir. ^r v« f^St^pLot. [Kararpi^^u t6v Aiavip^r^ 
^^$ii^u vi 0vp$^ Mett T690V, hwoi sbptvKwrrat 
inuTh T* fvHn T^f X'^ptCrpiaif ipSaivti ds «*t*, ical 
•■wrai.J 

TRANSLATION. 

PUtida,/nm the doer of the IToCe/, and the Othera, 
fk. Oh God ! tram the window it seemed that I 
kttrd DT hiwband's voice. If he is here, I hare arrived 
■ Ibae to make him aahamed. [A eervant enUre fmrn 
^^^] Boj, ten me, praj, who are in thote cham- 
kan? 

&rr. Three Gentlemen : one ^gnor Eugenie ; the 
*W Si^:Dor Martioy the Neapolitan ; and the third, 
■T Lord, the Coant Leander Ardenti. 

Ph. Flaminio if not amongit theee, unleei be has 
c^ukged his mme. 

hemfitr. \fVithin^ driiiJang.^ Long five the good 
^tUBe of Signer Eugenio. 

' ^tyt Xcrtrtc^, W»B ^(Kei vd (lir{* f ^c rati 



[7^ uhaU company.] Long lite, etc. (literaDj, 
N<f ^, vd ^, May he live.) 

Pla, Without doubt that is my husband. [T» ik» 
Serv.^ My good roan, do me the &Tour to accompany 
me ab^ve to those gentlemen : I have some business. 

Serv, At your commands. [Ande,"] The old offiot 
of us waiters. [He goee out of the Oammg^houee.} 

Ridolpho, [ To Victoria on another port of the tto^J 
Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. 

Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Ltaning on km 
OM iffairititig.l 

[Prom the teindowe above aU wkkin are eeen rieing 
from the table in confueion : Leander etterte ai 
tfte eight of Platzida, and appeare by hie , 
to threaten her Ufe."] 

Eugenia, No, stop— 

rJartio, DonU attempt— 

Letmder. Away, fly from hence ! 

Pla, Help! Help! [Ftieedaumtheetairt: 
attempting to foUow tvith hie twordy Eugenie 
him.] 

[Trappola with a plate of meat leape over the haiamjf 
from the window, andrunt intothe C^e^hmue* 

[Platzida runn out of the Gaming-houeey and taket 
•hdter in the Hold,] 

[Martio eteaU eqfUj/ out of the Gaming^houee, mnd 
goes off' exclaiming f "Ruroores fuge." The ServatUe 
from the Gaming'houee enter the Hotels and ehut the 
door,] 

[Victoria remaine in the Cqffe^houee ateiited bjf 
Ridolpho.] 

[Leander, tword in hand, oppoeite Eugenio, tfdoMii,] 
Give way — I will enter that hotel. 

Eugenio, No, that shall never be. You are a sooud- 
drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the bst drop 
of my blood. 

Leander, I will give you cause to repent this. [JMm- 
oong' wiOi hie sioord.] 

Eugenio, 1 fear you not. [He atlaeke Leander, and 
makee him give badt eo much that, finding the door r^ 
the dancing girPe houee open, Leander escapes tknmgh^ 
and eofinidiee,] * 



AIA'AOrOI OiKIAKOf. FAMILIAR DIALOGUES. 
Aid vu^qr^oi^f Ivn it pay pa. To auk for any thing, 
£a( irapaeaXd, idetri p^ &v I pray you, give me if yoa 

bpl^tre, please. 

•^/prr/ pe. Bring me. 

^avtietrt pt. Lend me. 

TlriyaivcTt vcL ^i^Hjetrt. Go to seek. 

^ £(uverai—" finithet"— awkwardly enouah. but it is 
tho literal tranilaiion of the Rumaic. The oriffinaJ ortliis 
comedy of Goldoni'a I nevtv read, but it do«« not appear one 
of hia beat. " II Bnsiardo" i» one of the moat lively; bat I 
do not think it has been traniilati-d into Romaic : it ia much 
more amutioc than our own " Linr." by Fo«ite. The char- 
acter of Leiio ii better drawn than Vouna WiMing. Ool 
Honi'f romediea aoMunt to fifty ; aome porhapa the beat in 
Europe, and othert the worst. Hit life w rImi one of the best 
apecimens of autobioaraphy, and, at Gibbon haa obaervod, 
**more dramatic than any of his playi.'* The abore aoene 
wai seli*eted at containina tome of the moat familiar Romaie 
idioroa, not for any wit which it duplayt, tinre there ia more 
done than taid, the arrater part cooaittinf ofatate directioas 
Tbe orifinal ia one of the few comediea by Gokioni wtuick^A 
without tbe huffoooetr of tbe spsak tn g HatVaonm. 



eaftWAVK 



100 



. BYRON'S WORKS. 



TApa gh66i. Now directly. 

Q JucptSif ftw K'Cpu, Kdiari My dear Sir, dd me thia 

fit ai/Hiv r^v X^P"'* favour. 

B}^^ vaf TopaicaAiS. I entreat you. 

Eyw irai i^opxl^u, I conjure you. 

Byd (rff( ri ^iTrfi iti x^*^' ^ '^ ^^ of you aa alkroor. 

Two^^tuiceri pt ds t6vov. Oblige me so much. 



Zm^ p0V. 

A.Kpi6^ p0v ^x^' 

A-Y^TIfTi pOVf ixplBi MOV. 

KapHr^a pov* 
Ayrfny p<n>. 

Aiit vi t{>x^pt<nijiri^ vi 
Kdpjff irtpmoitjasiy «a2 

Zaf cTjfiai ivdxptos KarH 

voXXd, 
Ey«^ -^Actf r) icrf/ia /irrd 

Xaf»5f. 
M^ SKriv pov rffv Kaphiav* 
JAi mX^v pov Kapiiav, 

TBXpat iXog l^tK6s 9as* 
KTpai ioUXSs ffag. 
Ta9tt¥&raT0f iod\of. 
BZoTCKard iroAX j thytviKdf, 
IlaXX^ ntpil^taBi, 

wif 6ov\eCffta» 
Ttlrrt ciyev(«A( icci. thjcpwf 

^OpOf, 

A.M tJvai xpiww, 

ri 9(\trt] 

Tl hpi^trt ; 

Xit rapacoXA yd pi pf 

raxttpi^t96€ iXevBtpa. 
XttpU vtpiirotiiffcs, 
Z£f AyairS i^ hXris pov Kap- 

6las» 
Kai iXA hpolttf, 
Ttpiivtri pt pi raif rpo- 

vraYois vag, 
■XCTV ri-KOTtf yd pi vpo' 

rrd^trt'f 
Upocrd^srs t6v SotX^ aa^, 
Upocpivm rtts rpovayds 

vat. 
M^ KdpvtTi ptydXtiv rip/iv. 
* ^$dvov9jj vtpinoltinSf vS^ 

wapoKoXA. 
llpocKw^mn h pipovf 

pod r)v ipxorra, 9 *^v 

Kiptov. 
BtBtut^tri TOP rfi( Hp 

ip$vp»9pM* 
UitmiAnri t9w ffdf rlr 

iywird. 



AjTeetionate oBpreMtiana. 

My life. 

My dearaouL 

My dear. 

My heart. 

My love. 

T\) thankj pea/ compHmtnttf 
and testify regard, 

I thank you. 

I return you thanka. 

I am much obliged to you. 

I win do it with pleasure. 

With all my heart. 
Most cordially. 
I am obliged to you. 
I am wholly yours. 
I am your servant. 
Your most humble servant. 
You are too obliging. 
You take too much trouble. 
I have a pleasure in serv- 
ing you. 
You are obliging and kind. 

That is right. 
What is your pleasure? 
What are 3rour commands? 
I beg you will treat me 

freely. 
Without ceremony. 
I love you with all my 

heart. 
And I the same. 
Honour mo with your 

commands. 
Have you any commands 

for me? 
Command your servant. 
I wait your commands. 

You do me great honour. 
Not so much ceremony, I 

beg. 
Present my respects te die 

gentleman, or his k>rd- 

ahip. 
AMure him of my remem- 

Iwance. 
Aaaure him of my friend- 

ihtta 



Ahf ^Am Xd^pn va ro0 rd 

TlpooKvviUpaTd pop ds ri^p 

ipXipTiecap, 
TitiyalvKTt ipirpooOi Kid aSg 
iKoXov6Si, 

Hfe<!pw JCoXdrd XP^*i H^» 
H^c^pw rd tTval pov. 
}Ai Kdpvtrt vd ivrpiviapai 

pi rats Treats ^iXo^po^ 

vHpots vag. 
6<Xrrc Xotirdv vi xdpta plop 

dxjptiiTtira ; 
Tvtfyw iprpooBd Sid pd vai 

hxaKoiota. 
Aid vdxdpu r^v vporray^ 

oas, 
Aip iyairQ rdoais ictptxotr 

Ah dpai TcXdus vept* 

VOtriTtKds. 

ASri dpat rd xoXih'cpov* 
T6cop t6 KoX^rtpop, 
E^trc ^^oVf ix^* iUccuop* 

Aid vd 0t£aiiicutf vd dp- 
^l^jiiy *'*J^ ovyKaravcioiitf 
ktX* 

Srvai iXriOipbPf dvai dXir 

Otararov. 
Aid vd uas drtia rhp dX^ 

dtiav. 
OvrwSf hpi dvat, 
Hotos dpipi6dXXti j 
AJv dpat iroffoi; dp^i^oXfa. 
Td irurretfw, Siv rd xic 

Aiyw rd paL 

Aiyv rd 8x^' 

B<fXXw orlx^pa tri eJfvat* 

BdXXiaortxnpa SrtSip dpoi 

rf at, pd TtlP rUnrtP pov 

Klf rflp tntPtlS^tp pov. 

Md riiP ^w^ pov, 

Nai, oai 6pv6iit, 

Sdf{ 6ppi(d &odp riptjpivot 

SvOpartos* 
Zdi dppHu hrdpta dt r^v 

Tip^p poo* 
Tlionivtri pt» 
Hpropd vd vdf rd Pdatt^ 

CM. 

HOcXa fidXp vrlxnpa 8, n 

^iXtrt 8id Tovro* 
Ml) r6xP '^°* ddartt^tff^* 

{XopareitTt); 
OpiXurt pi rd BXa vat ; 
Eyvtf vSf hptXa pi rd 8X^ 

poVf K«d v&s Xiyit rilP 

iX^uap, 
Eyd ait rd 0sSai4vti, 



I win not M to ted ha 

of it. 
My compliments to hs 

ladyship. 
Go before and 1 wiDfaasv 

you. 
I well know my dutj. 
I know my situatioik 
You confound me mdiM 

much civility. 

WouM you have me to 
be guil^ of anincif%} 
I go beibre to obeyj'oo. 



To comply with your 

mand. 
I do not like so much ear 

emony. 
I am not at all oeremo* 

ous. 
This is better. 
So much the better. 
You are in the right. 

To nfim^ dcny^ cohk^* 
etc 

It is true, it is veiy tnit. 

To tell you the truth. 

Really, it is so. 
Who doubts it 7 
There is no doubt 
I beheve it, I do Mfi be- 
lieve iL 
I say yes. 
I say no. 
I wager it is. 
I wager i: is not so. 

Yes, by my faith. 

In conscience. 

By my life. 

Yes, I swear it to you. 

I swear to you aa to hoo* 

est man. 
I swear to you on my Ik*" 

our. 
Believe me. 
I can assure you of it 

I would lay what bet yotf 

please cm this. 
You jest by chance? 

Do you speak «er^oo4r? 
I speak senoosly to *■•«• 
and teO you thfi wiC. 

1 Miara Tou oi ik 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



101 



lyrscdTcrc* 

yxtrt. 

tlvmt HHvarov, 



Tou have guessed it. 
Tou ha?e hit upon it 
I betieve you. 
I must believe you. 
Tim is not impossible. 



f a; etptu ^i KaXit9 THen it is vary weD. 

Xi. Well, well. 

JiXii0tv4v. It is not true. 

viif. It is false. 

rimrtf dnri atrrd. There is nothing of this. 
I t^^cS^^, itia It is afidschood, an impoe- 

ture. 
ni^9ftow {ix^pd* 1 was in joke. 



treaitH vi ytXiwm 

I xarH rvXXd. 
niv ils mdro, 

ir/ffo/iai tti toSto. 



I said it to laugh. 

Indeed. 

It pleases me nnich. 

I agree with you. 

I give my assent. 

I do not oppose this. 

I agree. 



BOm. I wDI not 

Tt^vofiai di rovTO. I object to thia. 

cvfiSovXtvO^s^ vd To oonsuUf anmdtr^ or r»- 



: vi Kditufttv ; 



iXtyov. 



What ought we to do7 
What shall we do? 
What do you advise me to 

do? 
What part shall we take? 



Let us do this. 

It is better that I— 

Wait a little. 
cv tlvat KoX^rtpw Would it not be better 
•; that ? 

I wish it were better. 

You will do better i f 

Let me go. 

If I were in your place, 

It is the same. 



V9iea KoX^jrepa, 
' df rdy r&inv oaf, 



tit9P, 



tder by th» tptamau hdowtoiU beetuMed to 
f^^cn Ae modem unik tkt ancient tongue, 

LEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOHN'S 
GOSPEL. 

N/tfv. AhOsrriKiv. 

Ktf4X. d. Ke^iA. d, 

0«^ ifnw h XSyot* Ocdv, icai 8ed( ^v b \&yos» 

iSrof ^nv df Tijv S. OZros ^v h ^xP 
nl OcoO. vpbi rdv Qiov* 



S. b\a [rd irpdyfiara] iid 
ftfaov roT> [Xdyov] iylvitoaVf 
Kol X'^P'f ahrbv iiv fyivc 
Kaviva eiri iyivt. 

4. KU ai/rdv fJTov ^w^* 

5. Ka? rd 0(3; ds n)v 
OKOTtlav ^iyyUf koI fi vko- 
rda Sh rd xardXi^t, 

6. ilyivev tvai dv$p<airos 
hrtaraXiitvoi iird rhv Oe6Vf 
rd dvofid Tov ludwitf. 



5. ndrra il a^n9iy4» 
vcro' Koi x**P^i aimiS hfiv 
tro oifii ivf 8 yiyoviw. 

4. tlf ahri^ ^w>) ^y, cat 
^ (w^ ^v rd ^df T&v Aw9pA' 

6. Kal t6 ^&s h rf 9in» 
rcf ^a/vct, Koi ^ aiuntta ah^ 
oi KariXaScp* 

6. ^yivtro Mpttmf iw 
fta ahrif iudyvin. 



THE mSCRIPTIONS AT OBCHOMEXUS, FROM 

MELETIU8. 

6PX0MENdS, Kotv&f S«rpiiro9, jr^( vori irX«uot«»- 
rdni Kid Ivx^P^^^^t vp&rtpov xaXovftimf Boi«*rMis2 
kBilvatf d( ritv hieotav ^rov i Nod; rdv Xaplrwf, df 
riv hvotov hrX^piavov rfXtj o{ Oq^aioi, oSrtVQf rft Uafof 
ivtoKd^Qri rori hvd rdv AeraXdyKiav. tiirainryipt^ 
di ah-r^v rflv ir6\tv ri Xapinjffio, rod bvoiov dyShof 
tSpov hriypa<peti iv arijXati ev6ov rod icrteOirros vao9 hr* 
dvdftart rJji QtordKovj ^ird roD vpforomraOaphv Aiovrofy 
Ivl rQv 6a(Ti\fuv BafftXuov, Aiorroff lud KuvcrarrlpoVf 
kX0^va% o^nai' iv ftiv rfl fti^ Koiv&i, 

" 078t hUiav rdv AySva ruv Xapinjeti^* 
SaXir«rr;}f. 

M9rif kiroXXuvtov kvrioxtdf iwd Matdvipov* 

ZiiiXos ZwtXov Tld^ioi. 

Vovfiiivios Novfir/vtov kOfivaiof, 

Xloitjrili iicuv. 
*A/if7v/af AnpoxXiovs OtjSoios, 

kiXririji, 
kiroW66orot kvoXXoidrov Kpijc. 

AvXutidi. 
Tdiimroi VoMirnov kpyJiof, 

KiBapiar^S' 
^avlai k^roXXoiSrov rod ^avtov A/oXdr$ Airb Ktf/i9<. 

Ki0ap(fi86S' 
Ariit^ptoi TlapittvleKov KaX;^i7^({y(0(. 

Tpay(jjt66s. 
ImtoKpdnit kpitrronivovf V&itof, 

KaXXiarparoi ^{^ac/orov Oij^aiof. 

Iloiririif Xarvptav, 
kuTjvlai £ktif*OKXlovi OtiSdtci, 

"tnoKpir^f. 
AtapdOeof Atapodiov Tapavriv6s» 

Uoiiirfis Tpay^i&v, 
2So^oirXi}( So^eicX/ov( A*9inwio{. 

Yrroicotr^f. 
YiaSlpixoi QtoSfapov QrjSaloi* . 

HoiTirili VLutfitpiiiV' 
kXl^avipoi kplcriavof kOtfvatot* 

Tirorptr^j. 
XrroXof krrdXov kBtrvaioi* 



103 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



OlU Mntv rAr nffi^rav iySva rdr i|i«3wMV* 

TLatfiai Tiyeftdvaf. 

Avfpaf al\tfcr6{» 
AtoxXJIt Ka\Xiii/,iov QriSatoi. 

kvhpai fiYC/tdvai. 
T6iiTiroi Voihvoi* Apytioi. 

iTroKpdrnf kpnTTQfiivovs F6ii9S» 

KayXlvrparoq ^ac/ffrov 6iT^ace(> 
Td intvticta. 
Ktafii^fiiiv noif;ri}(. 
kXi^apipoi Apiarluivof XOnvatoi* 

tlv it Tji iripq otapiKiii. 
MifOfflvw ap^ovTOi aywvo0cr{gvro( ri 
XapiTtirtoVf cvaptAcrv ndvruv ot rvt it htKtivmw ri 
XapiTtlua, 

TaX'ptYKTdS' 

Kdpov^, 
Eip^at T^tatpdriot Btt6uof, 

noctrdf, 
MifflTup fA^rropog ^taKattCs* 

Va^pcvi6(, 
Kfidrnv KXivtvos QiiSttos, 

AiXcirif. 
ncptytviU UpaK\etiao Kov(iffi7v^« 

Aa/i^wtrot rXaiKu kpyfi* 

KiBapttrrdf, 
Tdiimrpof AfiaXtJNrf Al»Xth{ iiri Mevpfraf* 

TpaYacvi6i» 
Xak\airi6ibipoi UovBcdo Tapavrtv6s» 

Ku>ftiuv66i» 
ViKdarparof ^iXovrpdw Gctfrio(> 

Ti2 htvlKtia Kupaniof. 
E^apj^oi llpoSdTu Kopuv€Vi>P 

*' tHipt^oi TIo\vKpdrovs (apuvvftof iioylnavof Svipt9Ci 
^paydaavrti viKdvavrcf Sioviaov iviBtixav Hpwfot£(f 
^l^aiTo; alXiorros xXiof S6ovtos dXir«r0/viof." 

J^v hip<f XtBtf. 

**$wdpx** ip^ovTOi^ ^ecvi( ^eiXovBiuf ip^i ^ Ed- 

SvXi ip)(tidpia ^(dKcia 8( iirtbtiiKa dri r^f owy 

ypa^Q Ttlba Ttav iro\cpdp)(^uVj irq rwv KaroirrduVf irtXi^ 
fuvof rdi 90vyypa<pC^ rat Kiftfvat x^p ti^p6pa, ki) <ptiiav 

KJ) waaiKXciv Kii TtftipLttiov ^uKiiaif x^ iafnf 

rcXciv Xvotidftutf k^ iiowaov Ka^tao6una ^rjpiavtTa itdr 
ri ^di^iayia rw hdpm. 



vW/7Vs€T>ni 



^vfwdpvm ipj(Oimtf fieivd; dXaXco/icviw F ap»wr, voXtf- 
aXmo; rafilas iniSt^Kt (vSu\v dp')(tidpna ipuKilt avi r^s 
wwyypa^ rh «araX<;rov trdr rd x^dipntfta rw idpu^ dvf 
Xlftfyof rdf c»ifyypa^»j rij Klittms vip ffw^tXoir, jci^ 



c4 Xv9£Safi«v iafi9TiXt9( wOa tAv MtiXsfidfXWVf c) ffli 

ilrtEK/E>biUOH 

"Ap^^ovTH Iv ipx^iuvi 99vdpj(mt If*^ l>«Xa|pab 
iv 3J F AaWi7 McvWtm *Ap;^cXtfM ^»^ rfrfm. 6{^ 
•yi EMwXo F /XaWq, o c^ cf »iXi i^9fun4m, hnik 

5m>o«<^&«, KJ^ •ir i^tikhn ahr^ Fri 9^Mh nip H^aAok 
iXX* ir/;^! wdrra vtfi rarrdf, c^ 4r»<<44«vft t| «Alil 
Iy«yrfc r<l( &fioXoy/a(, cj /ihf wwri iti^i^fmf jj^pim ' 
ES^mXv /W vo/i/af F (ri Awhrupa fivitmwt m^v Invfiii 
car/iff Ft can irpcSdrvf Mdv iH^r ^"^^ '^ ^ XC^ 
i iwavT^ h fttri Bitmpxpv Spj^orra ipj^o/ttUtg ^ t / fi 
fiaOri ii ECiSwXov Kcr* ivtavrip iKomv wip rhr nplm 
Kii Hv vipktv Sv rdrt Katpara rfiv vyM^tf rwv^ ci| rfiv 
kyOvj Kii rStv /^vfiy, c^ rdv firrwy, d) c^riM iM^pdw 
5/jnr rd rXc(0o( fic) iwoypd^to9 iSt wXtw rwr yi)fi|P 

filvMv iv rfl ffov}^!*/^/^! J^ 6iKarts» 9 H hmpm 

ZvfimXov i^UXtt Xi( rdv ipx*^w %*^ 

TtrrapdKorra Efi&tfXv xaO* fccrmr inofiik 

Ki^ rtf«ov ^tpirv ipuxp^i i^S P^S iKitntat^ 

^M..... fiiv Ki^ tpnpoKTos terw rdr fyfffhm 

Ko: rd /(!!(.'' 

fiv jXXoic X/99i$. 

"Avo^upa vivi^opw x^9^^ NOKYEZ. "KaXXiflim 
ip^dpt^off Koi £XXat." iivtUipl^ hnyprn^ E^tIh^ 
9 wvdipoj 8 ^r ^fUic ivoypdf^piv, •{ ra>«i«I tp ^t if f 
fw. Ka2 ra /(9s« 



TIm fbOowing is the prospectm of a traariitia ^ 
Anacharaii into Romaic, by mj Romaic naalVi Ib^ 
marotouri, who wiahed to publldi it in En^aad. 

eTahsiz TrnorFA^TKH. 

IIp^ TWi h ^iKoytwui K«2 ^lAAXfMW. 

Ttfffov c7yac rd ;|fp4«i/iev ri)( f^rvp/af, ^1* «Mc 1^ 
i^npUKtrat q irXlev pspatpvephni xaXmtiriKt *■! ^**' 
poihrrai fif h Koriirrp^ Ifiny rpd^ut ca2 ^Mc#faf nS^ 
Xfiv «a2 iiafSpi^v l$v&v KtU ytvOviv rHv pv^pw^ ht ri t 
aro Kol Suwfiact i fffroptir^ Ai^yvvif df cISm v^ 
2iravra. 

M^i rtroia ivirr^pi^ sxvai cicT^cnrrvf, ml iv rt^ 
it^fXtpn, ii Kptimv tixtlv ivaygaia' iiari Xnrh ^pA 
p6v0t vi r^ hcTtpoCptBa, pn ^ctfpovrtf o^rt rit 'PX^ 
rdv rpoyivwf pas, irdBtv ir&rt ffo? rA( thpiOitnn cl( ril 
varplias pas, evrc rd 99?, rd KoropM^ara m2 r^ 
^lolnnclv rwv ; Ar ipttiiimtptp rvbf dlAXeyvMcc 4C<fpii* 
va ^o( d«6<rovv 8)^1 p&m toT9piK&( r^ ^nC*^ *'' '^ 
Kp6oiov tUv wpoy6vi*v pat^ iXXa m) r»«o)fp^ink pl( 
itixvovv T^i ^Ints rfiv varpii*^ puty ca2 oinvi xo^ 
aywyo2 yii^cvoi pi robs ytttypafmUt rmv HpmKMf^ pit 
\(yov9, iSt^ c7fai al kBiivai, i6^ i Twdprn^ hit ci e^^Mf 
r^a ffrifdca 9 p Aia ^W;|^cc ^ p/« hupj^im iH lip A- 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



103 



ft,c«i rX. Tiffin m» ipttiH9uiu9 mirtis -nvf ftfl 

lifavienv ipxif Ttf«»» wmXatif^ ayvirc«T4Xw( fia; 
Twptnrrai |fi «ir»»f r«^ Xfy«o$. '* Ka6(i( & it 
!a^{ Avi;^a^((, ay Siv hrt^i^iro ri wavnippoavva 
(UM <A/;iar« 1% kJkXdiofj mv iiv ifi^opetro rd d^iJttia' 
I, r« 4^ col nif tr^Mf rdy f^Ai^rwi^, v^sAc ftstyp 
jti^K r«) rt #re/ia km rd vpiyita' tfCrM ca) & fnihcpoi 
ir^, •» ^ ifidwBmwt ri ro9 Iwxicpdrovtf ih iSivaro 
i tftj^mp^ ds r^r Tij(int9 r*9. Aw hiw iffitv vo/fOiTris 
(V j(lr«(c ri rvS £«Xwv*Cy Avcv^pymt, «a2 IltrraxeS, 
iv ij^ntrt »i ^v9^4tf9 "^ ''^ K«Xir/>yi}«P ri ^ rOv 
^•ycw» ra«* Ar & f^irwp Shf iir^¥$t^(TO rdt th^paieias 
■2 rM( ;(^fl;pici^<9/ia4( ro9 A^n9cBi¥0Vif iiv Ivtpylkm 
iifi(4^X^^ rwy iff/>o«rSy rtv* Av i N/o( Avd)^af>- 
i(i i Kr^(0( AMif Bap^oAo/ia(*( 2Jy uvtylv^vKt fti 
Cft^nv htpevkf mat <r</t/'iv robs v\iov iyKptrovf avy 
f&^i rwv fcXX^vMv, i^tptvv&v airobf Kard ffdOof ivl 
jiuurra i6u fny, iiv ^Xtv i^^dtni ToirT/v r^v wtpl 
UA4»i«i> umpiay rov, irtt Tltpi^y^vti roS Jiiov Avo- 
[^pnwf r«^* cvrev rpocuvo^dtBii^ • koI tli 8Xai ri; 
iyM7«ica( iigXiKTwt ftfrcyXMrrfatfq." Ka2 iv /v2 X^}Y» 
«MMi^, ^v 6cy tztpvaaf ii^ hl^yohi rod^ wpoyitnvi 
«{, jdiAtfv itf-w; vtpt^pttvrai fiaratui I^^XP^ ^^^ *^^* 
iMd«v avoi X^ia Iir0ovo4»(rpivov iidl rd ^iXoyt^h 
r^ctS, tttmt Of ^iXaXj^Oouf Ftpftapotf Scrtt ijttrd^paae 
^ Kivr A»^;^a^y il^d reZ roAXixoS c/f rd Ttp^iuviKdv, 
ArXMfdv Kcti q^c<( ^AM^cy va itt6(^uii€v r^f yvw^w; 
'Mr^iTpwir KaropOttip^'nttv &7oB ixapav •{ ^av/ia<rro2 
rtttm Tp9zdr0p€s q/itDvf ay irtOi'ftCipep y<2 fidButntw rifv 
tfUUt Kal ai(nch rutv th rds rfy^vaf Kai Ixiar^pai xai 
14 <49i oXXfl cr?of ^aO^atttff uy tx^fitv veptipytiav vi 
rmpfrw^ry n^cy KaraySittdaf xai hvoiovf ^avfiewrobi 
■i ^(]^tf>tv( tvipaSf tl Ka} vpoyiyovs hit&Vf ^(B, n/ui( 
iJiytM^^o/iey, c/( Katpiw &ro3 o{ iXXoycyei; ^ao/i<<^ov<rcy 
i^nif, (oi ^ -zaripai irayroiasvSy paOJivtms oiSorraif 
U ntipipi^fuv ixavrtf vpoOiptas tli r^v itSovtv roS 
^^dffv rsfrvv wyypd^fiaroi rod tfhv kvajfdpcuiti. 

H^i( liiv q\ frzoYtypafi pivot SiXopcv iitrtXiou irpo- 
V^«( rqv perd^pnnv rod BifXfov pi rifv Kari r6 ivva- 
h fj^iv caXih' ^dvtp r^c yi^y 'o^* 'V^ i/icXfaf, ra2 
<i<vnf rpvrw rl( roroy, ^iXoptv rd caXXwWffct ^1 rod; 
n*)^ic»v( rlvagas pi ix^Si TvpaUat Xi^eig iyKiX" 
ptypirotf els iiixd pas ypdpparny vpoariOirrtsSf rt 
^ T^^p09 KM App6itov lis Tiiv \<nopiav. 
wn H o^yypappa 3fXu yivtt tis rdpovs idicKa Karii 
(p>Viy ri)( fraXir9( iKl6atias- H rip{\ hXov rou myypdp- 
tnfunu fiophia fiKaiin rfjs Biffvrjs itti r^v vpov 
ror» rvy ytvypa^ucSiv rifaKuv. O (^tXoytvi^s ovv ovv 
•fn^ vpivu yd TXi^piocij tU koQi ropov ftoptvi iva 
u JLtpmrrttPta iitooi rTjs BiivrnSt <"} ro9ro X'''pU Kap' 
'n tptioviVf aXy tvOis ^oi* OiXit rip vapaloOtj h rSpos 
>rk^lr«( Kml itpiirof. 

t^^pivoi ra2 tiiaipovts iiaSiuoiTCf EXXijywy wq7itS' 
h (yicr/pef dydxfis i^rtprtipivai, 

itadwns yiappaporo^priS' 
^tipijrpios Bcvtipits* 
T^mpiSutv TlptBiros* 
i» Tpivri^ rf vp6rf 6Kr*Jipiov, 1799. 



THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 

U TIaT^PA pas hwov tlcai tig robs ohpavobSf Ss 
iytaaefi rb Svopd eov. Af tXBji ^ 0a9t\da oot . A< 
yivp rb ^(Xtipd aovy KaOiis </j rdy olpavbVf ir^tj tea} cis 
rihf y^v- Td \l.tapl nas rb KaBriptpivbv, Us pas rb ir^p- 
tpov. Kai cvyx^pttci pas rA xph paSi Ka6&s ical ipi7i 
evyx^po\ipcv robs Kpto^tMras pas* Ka? phit pis ^ipt 
tls vupaopbVf iXXd iXcvBipiaoi ftas i«d rdy xovtip6v, 
bri iSiK^ ooo dvai q fiavtXtla ii, i/ SivmpiSt xal ^ bi^a, 
its robs ai^vaf* A.u^v» 

IN GREEK. 

IIATEP i^^wy, & iv ro7s ohpavolsj iytaeS^irtt rb ipopd 
oov, tlXdint fi PaciXcia oav ytvriOiiT<4 rb ^iXt:pd ffoo, 
us iv obpavifi, Kal ix7 riis y?J« Tdy dprov ^pSv rbo inioH* 
etov ibs hpiv c^ptpov, Kai ai^ts kplv ri d^nXi^^ara ^fifiy, 
its Kai Ijptls A^ltptv rois b^ciXirais ^p&v. Kmi /li^ 
dotviyKps hpSs ds xupaepbvf iXXi ^boag ^pBs ^vd A»9 
xovffpod. bri cod icriv d fiaoiXdOf Koi ^ ibvapts, Kal f 
^o, ds robs alC/vas- 



CANTO III. 



Note 1. Stanza zviH. 
In " pride of plac«*' here last the eaf le flew. 

" Pride of place *^ is a term of falconryi and meani 

the highest pitch of flight. — See Macbeth, etc 

" An eaiile towerinf in bit pride of place 
Waf br a mousinf owl bawk d at and kilJ'd.** 

Note 2. Stanza zz. 

Bach aa Hanoodius drew on Athena* tyrant lord. 

See the famous Song on Harmodius and Ariitogitoo. 
— The best English translation is in Bland^s Anthdogj, 
by Mr. Denman: 

" With mjitle mr sword will I wreathe,** ete. 

Note 3. Stanza zzL 

And all went morrr as a marriage-belL 

On the night previous to the acti<m, it is said that a 
ball was given at Bnisscls. 

Notes 4 and 5. Stanza zxvi. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rinzi in eaoh clansman's ears. 

Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
"gentle Lochicl" of the "forty-five." 

Note 6. Stanza xxvii. 

And Ardcnmi waves above them her groon Inaviii 

The wood of Soigniea is supposed to be a remnant of 
the " forest of Ardennes,** famous in Boiardo*s Orlando, 
and immortal in Shakspcarc*s " As you like it.** It t* 
also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successfii. 
defence by the Germans against the Ronui encroach- 



104 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



meats. — ^I hare Tentured to adopt the name connected 
with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter. 

Note 7. Stanza xxx. 

I turn'd Trom all tb» brought to those the could not brinf . 

My giudc from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed 
mtelligent and accurate. The place where Msjor How- 
ard fell was not far from two tali and solitary trees (there 
was a third cut dov(-D| or shivered in the battle) which 
stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's side. 
— Beneath these he died and was buried. The body 
has since been removed to England. A small hollow 
fiv the present marics where it lay ; but will probably 
■eon be effaced ; the plough has been upon it, and the 
ffun is. 

After pointing out the different spots where Picton 
and other gallant men had pcrii«hed, the guide said, 
** Here Major Howard lay ; I was near him when 
wounded/* I told him my relationship, and he seemed 
then still more anxious to point dtt the particular spot 
and circumstances. The place is one of the most 
marked in the field, from the peculiarity of the two 
trees above-mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing 
it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, 
Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great 
action, though this may be mere imagination : I have 
viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, 
Leuctra, Cheronea, and Marathon; and the field around 
Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little 
but a better cause, and that undefinabie but impressive 
lialo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated 
■pot, to vie in mterest with any or all of th^e, except 
perhaps the last mentioned. 

Note 8. Stanza xxxiv. 
Like to the apples on the Dead 8ua*i shore. 
The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
were said to be fiiir without, and within ashes. — Vide 
TidU Histor. 1. v. 7. 

Note 9. Stanza xli. 
For sceptred cynics earth were fiir too wide a den. 

The great error of Napoleon, *'ifwe have writ our 
annals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind 
of his want of all community of feeling for or with 
ttiam; perhaps more offensive to human vanity than 
the active cruelty of more trembling and suspicious 
tyranny. 

Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well 
fti individuals ; anid the single expression which he is 
•aid to have used on returning to Paris aff er the Rusnan 
wmter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over 
a fire, ** This is pleasanter than Moscow,*' would prob- 
ably alienate more favour fit>m his cause than the 
destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 

Note 10. Stanza xlviii. 

What want these outlaws conquerors should have 1 

" What wants that knave 
That a kinf shonkl have t* * 

was King James s question, on meeting Johnny Arm- 
strong and his ibflowers in full accoutrements. — See 
the Ballad. 

Note 11. Song, stanza 1. 
The eastle crag of Draehenrels. 
The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest sun- 
nut o( "the Seven Mountains," over the Rhine banks ; 



it b in ruins, and connected with some nBfukr tradi- 
tions : it is the first in view on the road from BoHi 
but on the opposite side of the river ; on this baBk^ 
nearly facing it, are the remains of another called tht 
Jew's Castle, and a large cross conunoDorsdve of die 
murder of a chief by his brother. The number of castles 
and cities along the course of the Rhine on both ndes 
is very great, and their situations remarkably beaulifiiL 

Note 12. Stanza Ivii. 

The whiteneai of his soul, and thus men o*er him wepL 

The monument of Aie ymmg and lamented Genenl 
Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Aherkirchen, cb the 
last day of the fourth year of the French republic) slil 
remains as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
long, and not required ; his name was enou^ ; Franoe 
adored, and her enemies adnured ; both wept over him. 
—His funeral was attended by the generals and detach- 
ments from both armies. In the same grave General 
Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of 
the word ; but though he distinguished himself greatly 
in battle, he had not the good (brtime to die there ; liii 
death was attended by stnpicioiis of poison. 

A separate monument (not over his body, which ii 

buried by Marceau's) is raist-d for him near Ande^Md^ 

opposite to which one of his most memorable ezploili 

was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island oi 

the Rhine. The shape and style are different tnm 

that of Marceau*s, and the inscription more simplt ud 

pleasing: 

"The Armr of the Bambre and Manse 

to its Commander-in-Chief, 

HOCHE." 

This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 

among the first of France's earlier generals, befert 

Buonaparte mono|K)lizcd her triumphs.—He was At 

destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 

Note 13. Stanza IviiL 
Here Ehrenbrcitstein, with her shattered wall. 
Ehrcnbreitstein, i. c. " the broad Stone of Honoor," 
one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dis- 
mantled and blown up by the French at the truce of 
Leoben. — It had been and could only be reduced by 
famine or treachery. It yielded to the fimner, aided 
by surprise. Afler having seen the fbrtifications of 
Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by compar* 
ison, but the situation is commanding. General Mar> 
ceau besieged it in vain for some time, and I slept in a 
room where I was siiown a window at which he b sak! 
to have been standing, observing the progress of die 
siege by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately 
below iL 

Note 14. Stanza Ixiii. 
Unsepnlchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering gbosL 
The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of hones di- 
minished to a small number by the Bin'gimdian legMn m 
the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record 
of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still 
remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the Bitrgun- 
dians for ages (all who passed that way moving a bone to 
their own country) and the less justifiable larcenies of the 
Swiss postilions, who earned them off to sell for knife 
handles ; a pur|K)se for which the whiteness unbibed by 
the bleaching of years bad rendered them in great re- 
quest. Of these relics I ventured to bring away as nmcL 



CHILDE HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. 



106 



9 BHfde tlie quarter of a hero, for which the 
b, that if I had not, the next pasier-faj' migbt 
tad liiaBB to wqtm uaee ihaa the careful pre- 
Udi A flttend ibr them. 

Note 16. Staua facr. 
AvwtfeoiD. haik imw'd hK mWect bads. 

■ (near Marat) was the Roman capital of 



Note 16. Stanza Ixri. 
their dra one Bind, ooa heart, ooe dart. 

a jTOoof Aventjan pneateea, died aoon 
I endeaTovr lo save bar father, eoDdemned 
a traitor bjAuloaCsecina. Her epitaph was 
BMnj jeart ago ; — it is thus— 

Jidia Alpiaola 

Hie jaceo, 

UhGeis patrii infeCx proies, 

Dea Aventw Moeidos. 

Eioraie patris necem son potni; 

Male Bori in fatii iOe eraL 

Via Anno* XXllI. 

of no Innnan conqKnation so afiecting as 
hiilQfy of deeper interest These are the 
which ought not to peridi, and to 
with a true and healthy tendemeas, from 
id and glittering detail of a confiised mass 
• and bnttlea, with which the mind is roused 
to a &lse and feverish sirmpathy, from 
recurs at lengtli with all the nausea conae- 
ch intoxication. 

Note 17. Stanza Ixvii. 
he sen** fkee, Kke r ooder Alpine now. 

vrilten in the eye of Mont Blanc (June Sd, 
h eren at diis distance dazzles mine, 
ii.) I tins day .observed for some time the 
Bction of Mont Blanc and Mont Argenti^re 
I of the lake, which I %ras crossing in my 
of these mountains from their mir^ 



Ndte 18. Stanza Lud. 
the Uaa nahiog of the arrowy Rhone. 

or of the Rhone at Geneva is A/ue, to a depth 
h I have never seen equalled in water, salt 
oept in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 

Note 19. Stanza Ixxix. 
Ifar nioils may be with all they Mck poMwt. 

r* to the account in bi^ " Confessions " of his 
the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. 
and his long walk every morning for the sake 
te kiss which was the common salutation of 
quaintance. — Rousseau's description of his 
this occasion may be considered as the most 
yet not impure description and expression 
t ever kindled into words ; which after all 
h, from their very force, to be inadequate 
neation: a painting can give no sufficient 



Note 20. Stanza xci. 
Of earth o*er-f azioK mountaim. 

be recollected, that the most beautiful and 
doctrines of the divine Foumier of Chris- 
re delivered, not in the Temple^ but on the 

idw qaeation of devotion, and turn to human 
N J9 



eloquence, the moat effectual and splendid q;>ecimen8 
were no* pronotmced within walls. Demosthenes ad- 
dressed the publick and popuUr assemblies. Cicero 
spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on 
the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceived 
fWfkn the difierence between what we read of the emo- 
tions then and there produced, and those we ourselves 
experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing 
to read the Iliad at Sigaeum and on the tumuli, or by 
the springs with mount Ida above, and the plain ant* 
rivers and Archipelago around you ; and another to trim 
your taper over it in a snug library— <U« I know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is called 
Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the 
enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines" 
(the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass 
nor to question), I should venture to ascribe it lo the 
practice of preaching in the Jldd$^ and the imstudied 
and extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. 

Tho MussuJmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least 
in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore im 
presatve, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed 
orisons and prayers wherever they may be at the stated 
hours— of coitfse frequently in the open air, kneding 
upon a light mat (which they carry for the pinpose ol 
a bed or cushion as reqtured); the ceremony lasts some 
minutes, during v^hich they are totally absorbed, and 
only living in their supplication ; nothing can disturb 
them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of theae 
men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
general rite which was ever performed in places of 
worship, of which I have seen those of almost every 
persuasion imder the sun ; including most of our own 
sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, tiio Armeman, 
the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahomeian. Mury 
of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the 
Turkiui empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of 
their belief and its rites : some of these I had a distant 
view of at Patras, and from what I could make out ot 
them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan descrip- 
tion, and not very agreeable to a spectator. 

Note 21. Stanza xcii. 

The sky is chanced ! — and such a chanf e ! Oh nif hu 

The thunder-storrns to which these lines refer uc 

curred on the 13th of June, 181B, at midnight. I havo 

seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Clumar 

several more terrible, but none more beautiful. 

Note 22. Stanza xcb. 
And tunMt into roie-hues sees them wrouf ht 

Rousseaj^s HUoite^ Letter 17, part 4, note. — ^Cee 
montagnes sont si hautes, qu\me demi-heure apr^s le 
soleil couch^, leurs sommets sont encore ^dair^s de ses 
ray<ms; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches 
une beUe couleur de rose qu^on apercoit de fort loin." 
This applies more parucularly to the heights over 
Meillerie. 

" J'allai b Vevay lojjer h la Clef, ot pendant deux jours 
que j'y reslai suns voir persomic, je pris pour ceitfc 
vilie un amour qui m^a suivi dans lous mcs voyages, 
et qui m'y a fait clablir enfin les horoa do mon roman. 
Jc dirois volonticrs h ceiu qui onl du goiit ct qm sont 
sensibles : Allez h, Vevay — visiicz le p'vy'i exominezlea 
sites, promenez-vous sur 1** lac, et diles si la na^^rv» 
n*« pu fait ce beau payi pour uno Jviaib) yjm xuk 



BVROXS U'ORKS. 



Cluiro <t ynut iin Siiiul-Pnui ; innu w li'i v chrrrhii 


NowM. SianaciuL 


pM." /« Cw/tMtiHn; liin, ii. jmv, !jil6. I^m, 


ir..! 1 n..< III..II 1.., n,lod, -1,'l.ih.i. iMirnU-d- 


ina. 




Ill Julj, mifl, I nude a vuva^.. n»i.l tho blie »( 


!■.« Il.ui.,u„'. I.W b»o IjiM <w -inil^;^^ 


Ci'iicia; aiidaHru-iM iDyMirn nUmui.-ii. hiie Iwl 




KK 11 a nut miiHernMBl niir inVKiilivv tarmj ut »U 


Nulc i:^. SlBiua ciiT. 


riK-nniini muMl cekbraLgl h» R.»i>«'.m in hu "Hi- 


(>-n whW (nrfi ih:.! HDf tiBctrrlr tnt- 


lulne," 1 CHn nll'ly Kay, thai in Un. Hue ■■ n.. i-^ft- 


Il H raid by R'lcUlMKault that "ihut a tlu)i 


nti.li. It wouU iM dilBnill 




•ctiK.. iruinJ h, Wirat, OhilU*, B.-..iml, Si. liiiipi, 


dB,.l™Bi.|„,b.-«.." 


ttoia-iic, «ril«Kh.«e),«ilii. 




out biing Cnlbly uruck »>1h iu pi-oiliat ail^Miw 




milifl |«»« aiid ennlK xiUi ■h.h il hu bi-cn |>i»- 
fihil. Bill tlua u nith Khirli all 


CANTO IV. 












a'S^Iji-I" ■'* 


■1 it a Kiun uT Uk- uutaiirv uTlovr in iW IBM (XcMk-d 


ud MihUnw cafKicUy, aixl rf nir o»b |uiiio]nli<>n u( 


1'lll:naninuiucati.m ul^ 


It* ip-i aiid nf iu fturr ; il b> tlw Rml {.nnnj.!..- rf Uk 


priKDBXri'VruU'v V Inr at 

kTy.h«!hJ.«^tl«;i,t, .d 

actlL l-fae Halc diui|«aa,aU 

-wc ,«* in Ihe th»* ,™ll, rfii 

|irisini.-r mIimi taken out IB dia Btf 


Wf^S!! nTahirh, Ibuujft knoKing •xnwlvrii a 


&1^ '""""""''■""'"**'"*• '""' 


uviriaiiiim wiAl n»i Wm hai-s hrlmin'il iu mKh 


Ihe fiWrn to ihc .jthcr aide, and bdi| 


•ciKH. tie hu a.l.k'.l 1.. xim \viu.t,M ..T l,« K.>rki b]- 


^ a l>a* Jnwi. hu wmv .rf iIhv hrauly 


i but llHiy haie d.«.- Uul Tw him 


up j b.11 the |Hu«!.i i< nill upi^n, ani i. nn faxn ^ 


li'uig rmil-l du i;« tliim. 


the nan*' nf the Bri.lai' »f Si^h,. The poni an i^ 


•' "" "- " '"ia"'' i") '•> "il 


the Hoorinj: 


r"«i ia.ui,-ii;«-.ui.u^ii.uL.)ioSi. 
GincnJorinus 

ninl ly dBiigor lo Hk b.«, which «« «naJl and orciw 


Kfnch,ihe '^^^ brohaiyAr 

deeper of lhc« diingcunt. You -l, honnr, *■ 
•ccnd by a Itit|~daur, and 


l<>«h'.L It ou ufvr llUi |..n bf the l:.kG ihai 


half t]^M by nibbi-lH lo the &£(«:« 


are ^^ 


SI iliclli-r during a Innpoat. 
On 1 fo,,,.! ihu the 


K«th.. powr.perhapaJwIBB 

findil th.T«: •r»rct'lvaniyorU(d>t^in«niaMlh 




narrow uUioiheeelb, Bndlk.phn.if 


(^i K a Fcal oillr^ llw Cha- 
teau cic Claniu. The with nnejranhi, 

ODO of IhHHl wai iiaine.1 Ihe " B.nqilL-1 rfc Jnlif," and U 
;yS!^jf<l@ ilinu^h Imii; ago cm duwn hj ihi- 


artlolallvdwh. AfioJUt 

MTTi-d for ll» [»i»iwi'a «»<. i 
inwh>i> pidlcl, railed a fuX from the pnnd, an k 
uiilr fimiliire. The cniiducton Irll you (h 
viiwix.1 alU«cif. T1».5S« g^ 


Si? that llie gmml iiil^kl b* ii>- 
lADOi; {.,r ilw mi'ipnibla 'Inxiei of ■>■ 


*» ud rcipirtfM il 


«WfrablB luiicnliliim, Ihn inllab^Linlii uf Cluruai iJiU 


poiwoul. ir«.-. .!«.*). raUai, il by 


X 


Ihtnaim and Mcnird ihrm. 

R.«i«.;aah..»™iWn ^ in U«. 

" Thel-riarorUnalSt. Hiniardhat 
oT Idi •r».li r.« ilie nkr i,r a few 


siltci-i. yi-an-. ll<Mlht'«irit S l*«il 

hjlitftlnm.'iijlh.'ir duidi. 

whirh arP KilH vi«UH, . . . hap. <n« k«J«i 

i!on.rofy..d.t.ined>K>Mn 


lock-. oT .Mrilk'ri-i III iii>[.r<.vh.L' Ih, r.«,l i,> it»- Siinpkii. 


!: »- « --L- 


'llio rnad ia an <:in^h'ii) un.', l.>it I niui'ri <|iHlr a>TV» 


M« ^^ «.-jr 




rhncnurihp nfltHk. 


»iutM.ic.K.|,H.|.i.-o.lvi-nLr^" 


.\i ii^iirlr .1. bj turn ili^ w 


Kulfl IJ. Sl^oin cv. 


pencil, Ihri'fl of tlu^m arc 11 fujkxrs: 


LfluBiin. niHl f-m,.r)r ; s„ t,,.c U«- .l«lrt. 


K(*y T[ nnAR ah ai,cuko. pensa « taq 


Vobairo and CiUben. 


liE FuuiE vi,oi Di enosi uaata a laoi 



CHILDE llAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



107 



iL pEvnrn pentirti nulla oioya 

MA BKN* D( VALOR TCJO LA VERA PROVA 

lOQf?. ADl S. 6ENAR0. FUI RE- 
TEXTO r LA BBernSMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

LiCX»MO. GRTTTL 8CRI8SE. 

o 

ex PARUAR POCO eC 

NEGARE PROXTO «t 

UN PEX9AR AL FIXE FUO DARE LA VITA 

A NOI ALTRl MESCHINI 

lOOSw 
R60 lOHN BAPTIBTA AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 
3. 

DI CHI MI HDO GUARDAMI DIO 

H CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDERO 10 

V*. LA 8TA. CH. K*. R!»A. 

Tkt cof>\ist hu followed, noC corrected, the solccisins; 
! of which are however notquite so decided, since the 
were evidently scratched in the dark. It only 
ind be obeerved, that Begtemmia and Mctngiar may 
hi letd in the first inscriptioa, which was probably 
by a prisoner confined (or some act of impiety 
at a. funeral : the CoiiHlaritu is the name of 
tfinli oo terra firma, near the sea: and that the last 
evidently are put for Viva la Santa Cfdeta 
R'jmana. 

Note S. Stanza ii. 

Rae looks a sea Cjrfadr, fresh frofn ocran. 
with her tiara uf proud towers. 



Am old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, 
km omie use of the above image, which would not be 
pMbeal woe it not true. 

**^li« JU vl qui tupeme urbem eoniemjtletur, turritam 

riM imagineni medio oeeano Jiguratam $e putet tn- 
m 

Note 3. Stanza lit. 
la Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 
Tbtt well-kno%ni song of the gondoliers, of alternate 
!'a8So*s Jeruvalem, has died with the iudc- 
of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the 
oo «ie column, and the Venetian variations on 
At odier, as suog by the boatmen, were once common, 
ai tre stiH to be fbinid. The foHowing extract will serve 
laAowthe difierence between the Tuscan epic and tlic 
*'Cbbu aOa Barcariola.*' 

OriginaL 
Canto r armi pietn«e, e M capiisno 

Che *l fraa sepolcro libero tli Cristo. 
Moito Of Ii bptb col seono, e con la ma no 

Molto poffri nel glorioso acqimto ; 
E in van 1* lofcmo a lui •* <>ppo«(*, o in vano 

S' ann6 d* Asia, e di Libia il pupol misto, 
Cbe il Ciel f Ii die favore. e sotto a i santi 
Segni ridosse i suoi compagni erranti. 

Venetian, 
L' aime pietoso de cantar cho vof ta. 

E de Gi'ffrado la immortal braura, 
Cbe (*1 fin r ha Ubcra co strasiia. e dogia 

Del iHMtro buon Gcsii la sepohnra ; 
De mezo mondo onito, e de qoel BoRJa 

UkMier Ptuton no I* ba bu mai paora; 
Dio I' ha acinta, e i compafni sparpagnai 
Tatti '1 gh* i ba messi iniieme i di del Dai. 

1 Mmiq Antonii Babelli. de VenetaUrbia lita, narratio. edit 
TnriB. 1S7. Kb. L «. 908. 



Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
and continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Childo 
Harold, and another Englishmkn, the writer of this 
notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of whom 
wasja carpenter, and the other a gondolier. Tlu' tbrnn^r 
placed himself at the prow, tlio latter at the stem of the 
boat. A little afler leaving the quay of the Piazctta, they 
began to sin;;, and continued their exercise until we 
arrived at the island. They gave us, amongst otlier 
essays, the death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida; 
and did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
The carjipnter, however, who was the cleverer of the two, 
arKl was frequently obliged to prompt his companion, 
told us that he could tramiate tlie original. He added, 
that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, but had 
not spirits {mnrbin was the word he used), to learn any 
more, or to sing what he already knew : a man must 
have idle time on his hands to acquire, or to rq)eat, and, 
said the poor fellow, "look at my clothes and at me, I 
am starving." This speech was more affecting than his 
performance, which habit alone can make attractive. 
The recitative was shrill, screaming, and monotonous, 
and the gondolier behind assisted his voice by hoUliiig 
his hand to one side of his mouth. The carpenter used a 
quiet action, which he evidently endeavoured to restrain, 
but was too much interested in his subject altogether to 
repress. From these men we learnt that singing is not 
confmed to the gondoliers, and that, although the chaiint 
is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there are still several amongst 
the lower classes who are acquainted with a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the performers to 
row and sing at the same time. Although the ver:$es of 
the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet 
much music u[>on the Venetian canals ; and upon holi- 
days, those strangers who are not near or informed 
enough to distinguish the words, may fanc^ that many of 
the gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. The 
writer of some remarks which appeared in the Curiosities 
of Literature must excuse his being twice quoted ; for, 
with the exception of some phrases a little too ambitious 
and extravagant, he has fumistied a very exact, as well . 
as agreeable, description. 

'' In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long pas- 
sages from Ariosto and Tasso, and of)en chaimt them with 
a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at present on 
the decline : — at least, after taking some pain.«, I could 
find no more than two persons who delivered to me in 
this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, that the late 
Mr. Berry once chaunted to me a passage in Tasso in the 
manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 

** There are always two concerned, who alternately 
sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually hy 
Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed j it has properly no 
melodious movement; and is a sort of medium betuecii 
the canto fermo and the canto figurato ; it approaches to 
the former by rccitativical declamation, and to the lafti-r 
by passages and course, by which one s}-llablo is detained 
ami embellished. 

" I entered a gondola by moonlight ; one sincer placed 
himself forwards, and the otlier aft, and thus proceeded 
to St. Georgio. One began the song : when he had ended 
his strophe, the other took up the lay, and so continued 
the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, the 
same notes invariably returned, but, accotdm^ \o \hi 



108 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cubject manor of the strophe, they lud a greater or a 
smaller stress, sometimes on one; and soraetuoAs on 
another note, and indeed changed the enunciatioaoTthe 
whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. 

** On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarM and 
screaming: they seemed, in the manner of all rud^ un- 
civilized men, to make the excellency of their singing in 
the force of their voice : one seemed desirotis of conquer- 
ing the other by the strength of his lungs ; and so far 
from receiving delight from this scene (shut up as I was 
in the box of the gondola), I found myself in a very un- 
pleasant situation. 

<* My companion, to whom I commumcjitcda^his cir^ 
cunutance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of 
his countrymt^n, assured roe that this singing was very 
deUghtful when hoard at a cUstance. Accorchngly we 
got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the 
gondola, while the other went to the distance of some 
hundred paces. They now began to sing against one 
another, and I kept walking up and down between them 
both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his part. 
I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to 
the other. 

<* Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong 
declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the 
ear from far, and called forth the attention ; the quickly- 
Buccceding transitions, which necessarily required to be 
ning in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains suc- 
ceeding the vociferation of emotion or of pain. Tlie 
other, who listened attentively, immediately began where 
the former left oflT, answering him in milder or more 
vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe 
required. The sleepy canals, the lofty buildings, the 
splendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few 
gondolas, that moved like spirits hither and thither, in- 
creased the striking peculiarity of the scene ; and, amidst 
all these circumstances, it was easy to confess the char- 
acter of this wonderful harmony. 

** It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, 
lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these canals, 
waiting ibr his company, or for a fare, the tiresomeness 
of which situation is somewhat alleviated by the songs 
and poetical stories he has in mcmor)'. He often raises 
his v(Mce as loud as he can, whidi extends itself to a vast 
distance over the tranquil mirroi^ and as all is stiU around, 
he is, as it were, in a solitude iii the midst of a large and 
populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise 
of loot passengers : a silent gondola glides now and then 
by him, of which the splashing of the odts is scarcely 
to be heard. 

" At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly un- 
known to him. Melody and verse immediately attach 
the two strangers ; be becomes the responsive echo to the 
former, and exerts himself to bo heard as he had heard 
the other. By a tacit convention they alternate verse for 
verse; though the song should last the whole lught 
through, t.icy entertain themselves without fatigue ; the 
hearers, who *»rc passing between the two, take part in 
the amusement. 

" Tins vocal pcrfiirmance sounds best at a great dis- 
tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only 
fiilfils its dcjv.vn in the sentiment of remoteness. It is 
plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is 
scarcely possible to refrain from tears. My companion, 
who oth^ise was not a very delicat ely organized person, 



said quite unexpectedly : *h singolare eome qoel cul« 
intenerisce, e molto piil quando lo cantano raeglio.* 

**I was told that the women of Libo, the long row 
of blands that divides the Adriatic from the Logoum, * 
particularly the women of the extreme districts of Maki> 
mocca and Palestrina, sing in like manner the worfci of 
Tasso to these and similar tunes. 

** They have the custom, when their huri>ands an 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the eveoiiifi 
and vociferate these songs, and cootimM to do so with 
great violence, till each of them can distingaish te 
responses of her own husband at a distance.'* * 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes i 
of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. 
The city itself can occasionally furnish respeolable ai^ 
dienccs ibr two and even three opera-houses at a Ibm; 
and there are few events in private life that do not caB 
forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a phyridn 
or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman preodi Ui 
maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an operotki^ 
would a harlequin announce his departure or hu beaefiti 
are you to be congratulated on a marriage, or a birth, va 
law-suft, the Muses are invoked to furnish the sane ni^ 
( '.r of syllables, andthe individual triumphs blaze ibroid 
m virgin white or party-coloured placards on half theeor- 
ners of the capital. The last curtsy of a favourite ** priaa 
donna*' brings down a shower of these poetical tribiiM 
Srom those upper regions, from whidi, in our thaMi| 
nothing but cupids and snow-storms are accustooNd M 
descend. There b a poetry in the very fife of a Y enedn, 
which, in its common course, is varied with those wrprim 
and changes so recomniendable in fiction, but so £0inil. 
fi-om the sober monotony of northern existence ; anns* 
ments are raised into duties, duties are softwaed itft 
amusements, and every object being considered aseqwl* 
ly making a part of the business of life, is announced sii 
performed with the same earnest indifference and |sy 
assiduity. The Venetian gazette constantly ckises in 
columns with the following triple advertisement : 

ClUrade. 



BzpoiStbD of th* DKMt Holy 



la Um dmrch of St. • 



Tkeatru. 
SL Moms, opera. 

8t. Benedict, a comedy of eharacten. 
St. Luke, repoM. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe Aes 
consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it wortlv 
of a more respectable mche than between poetry and thi 
playhouse. 

Note 4. Stanza X. 
Bpaita hath many a worthier son thtn be. 
The answer of the mother of Braridaa to the strangers 
who praised the memory of her son. 

Note 5. Stanza xi. 

Bt. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Bund.— 

The lion has lost nothing by his journey to die h- 

vaUfUij but the gospel which supported the paw that 9 

now on a level with the other foot. The horses, also, 

ore returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set oat, 

and are, as before, half hidden under the porch wiadnw 

of St Mark's church. 



1 The writer meant Lido, which is not a k>Qf row of iskak. 
but a lone island — UUms, the shore. 

S Curiosities of Literetnra. voLJL p. 158. edit. ISOTt t» 
Appeodiz zziz. lo Blaek*s Lyb ofTSsMk 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



109 



IVir haliirjr, afler a deaparmte itnigglc, has been 
nfirfiitnrJy explored. Tlie decuions and doubts of 
Cfiizo ud Zaneltiy and laatlj, of the Count Leopold 
CieofBin, would have ghron them a Roman eztrortion, 
aad A pedigree not more ancient than th^ reign of Nero. 
BaiM.de ScUefel stepped in to teach the Venetians 
Ibr^sloe of their own treaama, and a Greek Tindicated, 
•t IaiI and for ever, the prelenaioa of his countr>-nien 
Is dus noble production. * Mr. Mustozidi haj not been 
a reply ; buty aa yet, he has received no 
It should aeem that the horaea are irrevocaUy 
and were tra na fa ied to Constantinople by The- 
La|»darT writing is a fiivourite play of the 
ka&sos, and has eooferred reputation on more than 
one of their literary dwraeters. One of the best speci- 
MBs of BodooiV typofraphy ia a respectable rolume 
flf iasrriplions, aH written by his friend Pacciaudi. 
tciwal were prepared for the reoorered horses. It is 
Is W hoped that die best was not selected, when the 
Mswinf words were ranged in gold liters above the 
oiha^al porch : 

tVATUOK . X^irOECM . SiaMA . A . TSITSTIfe . BT- 
CAPTA . AD . TXMP . D . MA& . A . K . S . 



■ecir . pofiTA • qujB • bostilis . citfiditas . a . 

■BCCCm . ABSTULCKAT . FmAVC . I . IMP . PACIS . 
•BBI . DATJE . TBOPH.CrM . A . MDCCCXT . TICTOJl . 



Ksthing shall be said of die Latin, but it may be per- 
lo oboerfe, that the iigaatioe of the Venetians in 
the horses from Constantinople was at 
hsBl e^oal to that of the French in carrying them to 
IMsiand that it would have been more prudent to have 
an allusions to other robbery. An apostolic 
should, perhapa, have objected to affixing, over 
principal entrance of a metropolitan church, an in- 
a re f e r en c e to any other trium|^ than 
of rebgion. Nothing leas than the pacification 
tf Ihe worU can excuse such a solecism. 

Note 6. Stanza zii. 

TIm Saabtao so^tl, snd now the Amtrian mfiu — 
As snperor trampws wrfcs iu aa enperor knelt. 

AAcr many vain efforts oo the part of the Italians, 

cnbrdv to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 

■d as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make him- 

Nif abodute master throughout the whide of his Cisal- 

the bloody struggles of fbur-and-twenty 

happfly brought to ackwe in the city of Ven- 

The articles of a treaty had been previously 

•freed upon between Pope Alexander III. and Barba- 

leaa, and the former, having received a safe-oonduct, 

kid already arrived at Venice from Forrara, in com- 

psay with the ambavsadors of the king of Sicily and the 

OMisuk of the Lombard league. There still remained, 

iMwever, many points to adjust, and lor several days 

iW peace was believed to be impracticable. At this 

jmetare if was suddenly reported that the en^icror 

bad arrived at Chkna, a town fifteen miles from the 

CipiliL The Venetians rose tumukuously, and insisted 

9fm issmediatcly conducting him to the city. The 

TftdbuJs took the alarm, and departed towards Trc- 

vim. The Pope himself was apprehenuve of some dis- 

Mtar if Frederic abouki suddenly advance upon him, 

bat was re-asaured by the prudtence and address of 

1 9m naiiro eavalLi drila BasiHea di B. Marco m Vmrnts. 
b«— adi Aodtm Mnalnaidi Coiciresa. Padova per Bettooi 
11,1816 



Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Several embassies passed 
between Chioza and the capital, imtil, at last, the emperor 
relaxing somewhat of his pretensions, *' bid aude hit 
leonine ferocity, and put on the miMness of the lamb.** * 
On Saturday tlic 23«1 of July, in tlie year 1177, six 
Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp, 
from Chioza to tlie inland of Lido, a mile from Venice. 
Early the next morning, the Pope, accompanied by the 
Sicilian ambassAdoni, and by the envoys of Lombardy, 
whom he had recalled from the main land, together 
with a great concourse of people, repaired from the 
patriarchal palace to Saint Mark's church, and solemnly 
ahsolvefl the cm{)cror and his partisans from the ex- 
communication pronounced against him. The chan- 
cellor of the empire, on the part of his master, re- 
nounced the anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. 
Inuncdiatcly the dovp, i^ith a great suite both of the 
cleroy and laity, got on board the galleys, and waiting 
on Frederic, ruwed him in mighty state from the Lido 
to the capital. The emperor descended from the galley 
at the quay of the Piazctta. The Hoge, the patriarch, 
his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice, with 
their crosses and their standards, marched in solemn 
procession before him to the rhiirch of Saint Mark. 
Alexander was seated bnforo the vestibule of the ba- 
silica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by tha 
patriarch of Aquilcja, by the archbishops and bishops 
of Lomhardy, all of them in state, and clothed in their 
church robes. Frederic approached — ** moved by the 
Holy Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the person o! 
Alexander, laying aside his imperial dignity, and throw- 
ing off his mantle, he prostrated himself at full length 
at the feet of the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his 
eyes, raised him benignanlly from the ground, kissed 
him, blessed him ; and immediately the Germans of the 
train sang, with a lowl voice, * We praise thee, O Lord. 
The emperor then taking the Pope by the right hand, 
led him to the church, and, having received his bene- 
diction, returned to the ducal palace." ' The ceremony 
of humiliation was re{>eated the next day. The Pope 
himself, at the request of Frederic, said mass at Saint 
Mark's. The emperor again laid aside his imperial 
mantle, and, taking a wand in his hand, officiated as 
verger, driving the laity from the choir, and precedmg 
the pontiff to the altar. Alexander, aAer reciting thu 
gospel, preached to the people. The emperor put him- 
self close to the pulpit in the attitude of listening ; and 
the |>ontifr, touched by this mark of his attention, for 
he knew that Frederic did not understand a word ho 
said, commanded the {Atriarch of Aquilcja to translate 
the Latin discourse into tlie German tongue. The creed 
was then chauntc*!. Frederic made his oblation, and 
kissed the Poj»e's feet, and, msLM being o\'er, led him by 
the hand to his white horse. He held the stirrup, and 
would have held tlie horse's rein to the water side, had 
not the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- 
fomianr-c, and afTcctionately dismissed him with his 
bem'iliction. Such is the substance of the account \cXi 
by the archbi»hop of Salerno, who was present at the 
ceremony, and wliose story is confirmed by every stjb- 
se(]uent narration. It would not l>e worth m minute 
a record, were it not the triumph of liberty as well aa 

1 •' Qiiitiu* Aiiditid. iiniMTHttir. <ip«'nim»! oo, qui rorda prin- 
ripum iiicui vnH ot ((iiniiiiii vult humiiiivr inclinaj. konina 
reriint' depoHiia. ovinsm mswurtudinem imluit. ,RomasiA 
Salcrnitant. irhrooieoo. apud Ckript. Bet. Ua\. Uma.N VL^.^SA 

8Wid.p.aL 



no 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



with a liliiiik shi-rt of pap^r, praying ibem to _ 
whal ti-mw iIh-v |ilra*cil, nnil lesTe Xo Venoce o«iSjW 
iiiilc|icn<l''nco. The Prince of Padua ^m i»cii««4* 
h:«icn to thuNC prupoitalit, but the GonocK, wrlio,Al 
tlic virtory ai Pula, hail shouted, ** to V«nic«v toT» 
u'Vj nihl loiiff \\\f. 8i. George,** detennined to ajaailM 
ilif ir rival, aiul Peter Doria, their commander^io-cyij 
rrtunird this unj^wnr to the ftuppliants: *'^>B GA 
faith, gc>ntlcm<-n <iC Venice, ye ahall have do p«t««*fci 
the Sinnor of Padua, nor from our commune of Oa^ 
until i%G have first put a rein upon thoae anbridled hmt 
of ytiiirs, that arc u\tnn the porch of your eran^'d'A 
Mark. Wlifin we have bridled them, we shall kecp^ 
quiot. Anil this \s the pleasure of us and of 



! niuni.'. As Air these my brothers of Genoa, thMtJ^ 

<Mi Lo frive up to us, I will BOt *" 



of 9siif)"r'^tiii<Hi. The ictatcs of Ltmibarriy owt^I tn it the Si;.q)rir of Padua, the Vcnetiani were redDCed to ^^^ 
f:iMiiinii.i!ii>n of rh«:ir iirivi[fo(;<« ; an<i Alexander had ni'i^t rl^jipair. An embassy was vent to the 

n-astjii lo th'ink ihi.- Alnii>.'hty, whu had onnblnl an in- 
firiiif ii'i.'irim.'d old man lo sulnlui.' :i ti-rriUle and |KHi'nt 
«o*iTi j^i:.' 

N«ito 7. Stunza xii. 

I f}.. I'ur fiiv> Iii>iir iif tiliml ii!il \} iniinio I 

T'l' i>>-i iL'^-ii-inun chii't', nyznntKtiirit rnnijiu'rinr fuf. 

Till- ri:idi.Twill ri'rnlU.'ri ihi- r\r|.ini:iti(inof ibc hi^h- 
l»::li r, (th^f-r one h"ur «>/ Duwlr*. ! Henry Dandolo, 
whfii I li-iMwl 'lojfc, in 1 19J, was fi;jhfy-tiv»; > i;ar» of age, 
Wlicii hi' roniin:ui«ii:d iIir Vvnrtians at thu taking of 
Con«<f;uilini»[ilo, he; wa-J cniiscqiif'nlly ninL-ty-scvcn years 
i>M. At tins unf \\o ann«;\i-d the fourth ami a half of 
till' wliiM' iMiiiiiro i>f Koiiiiinin, ^ for so the Roman em- 
pire ^^a< riicn oillfd, to thr titk' aiul to the temtorifMi of 
tluj V» Julian Dooi... 'l"ln» thrc-o-riiihtliK of this empire 

were pri-sfrvrd in the diplomusi tuitil the dukedom of j|j|y,. lirmiuht with v< 

GiovnuMiDo'iino, who ma^lcusn of the above dcsigna- t|„.^ . t:iki- ,li.-m back; for, in a few days 
tion Ml thr y» :ir 1,^67.' ^^j^U p,^^,. j^,„| j^.j ^^^.„^ Q^^^ of pri*ini myMstf, both 

])-.i!ki!<>!(> !pi1 the attark on Conntantniople in person: 
two sliiiJ". lliu Paradise and th'! Pil«rriin, were lied to- 
gethrr, nivi a drawbrid>«c nr hiddiT let down fnun their 
hi^jfli'T yards to the walls. Thcdo^^c was one of tlie fintl 
to nisli into thr> rity. Then was completed, said the 
Venetians, the prophecy of the Rr>'thni*an sybil. " A 
^therini; to^'cthcrof tiic ]K»wcrful shall be niatle amidst 
llie \\;tviA of (he Adriatic^ uiulcr a blind leafier: they 
shall Ih-scI the gout — they uhall profane Kyzantium— 
they shiill l»Iai:ken her Uiildinos — her spoils shall bcdii- 
persiMJ ; a new j;(>at shall bleat until they iiavc measured 
out ami run over (iOy-totir feet, nine inchc*s, and a half."^ 

Daiiilo!i> died on the first day of June, ISt)-'), having* 
reigni'd thirteen years, six months, and five days, and 
was buried in thu church of St. Sophia, at Constanti- 
nople. Strnii^i^ly enouiih it must sound, that the name 
of the rr-lH'l a|»oiljccary who rneeiveil the dole's swonl, 
and nnnihilaled the ancient government in 1796-7, was 
Dandolo. 

\otc 8. Stanza xiii. 

But is not Doriii's immace come to pau? 
Ari.' tlh'y iii^r hridlnl f 

After the loss of the battle of Polu, and the taking of 

Cliio/a on the 1 6th of Anpnst, 1379, by the united 

armament of the Cenoe$c and Francesco da Carrara, 



and all llie others.** > In fact, the Genoese didi 
as far as Malamocco, witlun five miles of tbo< 
but their own dan^jer, and the pride of their t- .^^ 
gave coura:;c to the Venetians, who mede pwiy^T 
etfortu, and many individual sacrifices, all of thi*^^ 
fully rerorded by tiieir hiMorians. Vettor Rna ^^ 
put at the head of thirty-four gilleys. TheGai^L 
broke up from Malamocco, and retired to ChaK 
October ; but ihey nsain threatened Venice, 
redurol to extremities. At this time, the Irtflf • 
ar>-, 13fO, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been 
on the Genoese coast with fourteen gaUeja^ 1^ 
Venetians were now strong enough to besiege te Of 
noese. Doria was kilk^i on the 2Sd of Jannary tf ■ 
stone bullet a humlred and ninetj'-five pounds ' 
discharged from a liomhard called the Trerisan. 
wa:t then closely invested ; five thommnd 
amongst whom were some English CondolUeri, ea^ 
mandeil by one Captain Ceccho, joined the VenebHk 
'Flic Genoese, in their turn, prayed for conditkiai, M 
none were granted, until, at last, they eurrcadflvd tf 
discretion ; and, on the 24th of June, 1360^ the Dq|l 
Co itarini made his triumphal entry into ChioHu Fw 
thousand prisoners, nineteen galleyv, many ^Hlti 
vf'ssels and Itarks, with all the ammiinitioa and ■■% 
and outfit ol' the ex(»edition, fcU into the haiMli efAl 
coiH|uer(»rs, who, had it not been for the iNiflnMi 
answer of Dnria, woiikl have gladly reduced their d^ 
minion to the eiiy of ^'enice. An aoeouDt of tkM 
transactions iit fi.iund in a work called the Wv d 

Ym 



1 Sit t)i«> ulinvH-rititil Rnniunlil of S^alnrni). In a ■•"'ond 
seriiinii wlijrh Alrxandnr pn'nclitsl. oo ilu' tint dnjr of Aii- 
rutfl. Iii'liirf •>!»• ••i,i(><'ror. )i" romparod |-*rcik'ric to tliu prodigal 
»on. nml iiirr.-fir tn the rorsiviiiir rnth<*r. 

S Mr. tlililion haw omitinl thn iiniNuiaiit ^, and has writimi 
Rom.iiii iiiMf.ad nfRomnniv — Decline and FhIJ, chap. Ixi. 

nntp *.i. liiii ilip titk' nciuirt-d bjr I):inrlolo runs thii" in the ,•,, - •.. & t\ - i ^i.- i_ 

rhr..,ii.lo ut- hiH nnm...ake. th« Dore Andrrw nandoJo:-: ^'"•^•°» ^ntten by Damel Chuiazzo, who 
DuruU tiiul.i inUiilit. " Qunrti' partit et tiimidim tottyn im- icc at the timo.'-' 
pnii liomn»i».^' And. Darti]. Oininicon. cap. iii. pars xxxvii. Note 9* Stann xiv. 

ap. t»Ti;»t. Ri-r. Ital. loin. xii. pairo Xtl. And the RomaniB --^ ,.„, * * - j^ i • * •• 

U oU'Tv.'d hi the •.iilweqiirnt niti* of thi» dinrfn. IiidM-d Hw* _, i no I ianier of »m Ldoa. 

cniitineur il |K>?i*rMiionii (>r the (Irfvk oiiipire in KtirntKf, wero; Mi*tnt the /ynn— -lliat is, the Lion of SL Mvk|1M 

tlieii ci^ftfTnliy known by th« nnmo of Roni.inia, and that ap- ; -^ 

P'<l|Mtii>ii i<i siill Min in the maps of Turkey at applied to' ^ "Alia fed! Uio.i^iriiori Venexiani.noahavcseteMUpMi 
Thri^-i.. 

*t H-.. (|if< ri^intiniiation or Daniloln'f Oironick;, ibid. p. 498. 
M'. <ii!-lMtii !iii|)rnr- o'li to inrludf DolHno. folio winfrHaniidii, 
wi'ii ■»«>•«. '■ il qvn^ f.itoln HI v.*o Hit ttl Jhtffr Ginranni J'}ol- 
f,n»." S'l' Viio d<.'' DiirJii de VMifxia, ap. Script. Ker. Ital. 
lutn. xxii. .Vtii. till. 

4 " Fi--' ri.iii;ininiii in aoui'* .-Xihiatiriii rnnzrncatin, copen 
|inmlnr.*. Ili'-ium amliiirfiii, Byr'intium prophannhiint. vdi- 
ficia drrpirr iliiiiit : gpolia •'imN tprniur. Ilirruo nnviis Italabit 
ii«(]ue diini I. IV. p(>i<(Mi pt IX. pollices et 8vmi«, prrmcmurati 
4iarurii;:*.** Chruuicon. ibid, part xxiiv. 



dni Siviiofp di PHiiotia, n6 dal ixMtru eomone di < 
Iiriiniernm«ntR non incitfimo le briitKo a qoolli vostri 
■fn-nati. rh*> «niiigu luRendelVuslro Evenfvliela SL 1 
Infrrniiti cIh' cIi havronMi, vi Aueno etare in buuoa 
qii«*!'ta V la mtnninoiif nostra, e del noetro comune. 
mii-i fratolli Gonnvcoi, ehe bavete menaii eon ro\ per ( 
non li vndio ; rimniiettfgii in dietro perehe io Inten d ed ^ 
a poehi rinmi venineli a riacuuter deUe Toatre prieioai a !■> 
e eli ahri.** 

S " I'kronica della xaena diChkna.** etc. I 
turn. XV. p. 6911 to M)4. 



CUILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



112 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Uang, and carried along Icn interetted critics in its 
ntirrent, is run out. We have another proof that we 
can never be sure that the paradoX| the most singular, 
and tfierefore having the most agreeable and authextfic 
air, will not give plaGg||o the re-established ancient 
pr^udice. ^f 

It seems then, first, that Laura was bom, lived, died, 
and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. 
The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabri^res, 
may resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la 
Badk again bo heard with complacency. The hypo- 
thesis of the Abb^ had no stronger props than the 
parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of 
the wife of Hugo dc Sadc, and the manuscript note to 
the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian Ubrary. 
If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was 
written, the medal com|)osed, cast, and deposited, with- 
in the space of twelve hours ; and these deliberate du- 
ties were performed round the carcass of one who died 
of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the day 
of her death. These documents, therefore, are too de- 
cisive : they prove, not the fact, but the forgery. Either 
the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsification. 
The Abb6 cites both as incontcstably true ; the conse- 
quent deduction is inevitable — they are both evidently 
false.' 

Sec(xidly, Laura was never married, and was a haughty 
Tirgin rather than that tender and prudent wife who 
honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre of 
an honest French passion, and played off* for one-and- 
twenty years her HUle machinery of alternate favoors 
and refusals* upon the first poet of the age. It was, 
indeed, rather too unfair that a female riiould be made 
responsible for eleven children upon the faith of a mis- 
interpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a Ubrarian.' 
It is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of 
Petrarch was not platonic. The happiness which he 
prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely 
not of the mind,^ and something so very real as a mar- 
riage project, virith one who has been idly called a 
shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least 
six places of his own soimels.* The love of Petrarch 
was neither platonic nor poetical ; and, if in one passage 
of his works he calls it ** amore veementeissimo ma 
unico ed onesto," he confesses, in a letter to a Inend, 

1 The'unnnet had before swakenf>d the tafpiHoiw of Mr. 
Bonce Wdlpole. See hit leUer to WhnrtoD in 1763. 

S " Par ce petit manefe, cette allnrantive de faveura et de 
rirufturt bien in6iM|t^. onfl femme k'ndrn et wue aniuiie, 
peadant vinft-un ant, le plus crand po^te de Kin aiecle. aana 
faire la moindre breche k son honneur." M6m. pour la 
Vie de PAlntniue, Prdfaro nux Francaia. The Italian editor 
of the London edition of Petrarch, who hai traiulated Lord 
Woodhounehm, rmidan the " fcmine teoHre et wiee," "r\f- 
$naim eivetta*' Rifleanoni intomo a Madonna Laura, p. 2l4. 
vol. iii. ed. IHll. 

'A In a dialof ue with 8t. Auftiiatin. Petrarch has dciicrihed 
Laura aa having a httAj exhau«tml with repeated vtubji. The 
old editors read and printed perturbationihtif; but M. ( 'ap|M>r- 
oninr. librarian to the French Kinir, in 17(t!2. who aaw the M0. 
in the Paria library, made an attestation that " nn lit et gn'on 
^^tlire,partubtu eihmuilum.** De Sadejoiuttd the name* 
of Metuni. Roudot and Bpjot with M. Cappcronier. and in the 
whnk- diiicuwion on this jttuht, showed hinwf>lf adownrifbt 
Hterary rogue. See RiflKMioni. etc., u. 2(17. Thumai Aquioaa 
i» cbIUhI in to nettle wli»>ihcr Putrarch'a iui«treM was a cAojU 
hiaid or a continent wife. 

4 " PiiinHlion, quanto lodarfi dei 
l)«»ir irnmaf ine tna, a^ inille volto 
N* aveatiquel rh' i* aol una vurrei.** 

Soni-tto 58, Qmando piunee a Simem V 
alto conceit n. J a Rime, etc., par. i. 
pa«. 189. edit. Ven. 175& 
ft a«- RiAeaaioni, etc.. p. 39L 




that it was giulty and perverse, that A abmbed \m 
quite, and mastered his heart.' 

In this case, however, he was perfaiqM alarmed fa 
the culpability of his wishes ; for the Abb^ de Stdl 
himscU| who certainly would not have been 
knisly delicate, if he oouU have proved hia 
Petrarch as well as Laura,isfi»x:edintoafltoiit( 
of his virtuous grandmother. As far as rdates to ttl 
poet, we have no security for the innocenoe, 
perhaps in the constancy of his purstnL He 
in his epistle to posterity, that, vHien arrived at Ui 
fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but had krt 
all recollection and image of any " irregularity.*^ Bm 
4he birth of his natural daughter cannot be 
eariier than his thirty-ninth year ; and eithv the 
ory or the morality of the poet must have failed 
when he forgot or was guilty of this s^.' The 
argument for the ptirity of tlus love has been drawn frm 
the permanence of effects, which survived the olyeet «f 
his passion. The reflection of M. de la Bftftic, thai 
virtue alone is capable of making impressions wUdl 
death caimot efface, is one of those wluch every ka^ 
applauds, and evory body finds not to be true, the m^ 
mem he examines his own breast or the recorcb flf 
hmnan feeling.^ Such apophthegms can do nothiaf Ar 
Petrarch or for the cause of morahty, except with thi 
very weak and the very young. He that has made 
a little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage, < 
be edified with any thing but truth. What is caM 
▼indicating the honour of an individual or a nation ii 
the most futile, tedious, and uninstnictive of all wiitiBg; 
although it will always meet with more applause 
that sober criticiun, which is attributed to the 
desire cC reducing a great man to the common standiid 
of humanity. It is, after all, not unlikely, that ow 
historian was right in retaining his favourite hjrpotlMlie 
salvo, which secures the author, although it acarcriy savH 
the honour of the still unknown mistress of Pctrardi.^ 

Note 16. Stanza xxxi. 
They keep hia duat in Arqulk, where he died. 
Petrarch retired to Arquk immediately on his retm 
from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Rosni^ 
in the year 1370, and, with the exception of his cfde- 
broted visit to Venice in company with Francesco Ki^ 
vello de Carrara, he appears to have passed the fbtir bsl 
years of his life between that chamung solitude and 
Padua. For four months previous to his death he was 
in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of 
July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in his 
library chair with his head resting upon a book. Hm 
chair is still shown amongst the precious relics of Aiqnk, 
which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has Wea 
attached to every thing relative to this great roan, frooi 



1 " Quells rea e perveraa pnaaione che solo tatto mi ^ 
pava e mi recnava nel cuore." 

3 .4:1011 diMunrMla, are hit woida. 

3 " A quenta cniiroamone ctwl aincora diede fbrae ocearioas 
una nuova caduta rh' ei fece. " Tirabosebi. Stoiia. eie., losk 
v. lib. iv. par. ii. paf . AVti. 

4 " // K'lr a que In vertm eeule gni $eit eapMe defnre Jm 
imprfttxione que la mart «' efface poji.** M. de Bimard. Raioa 
de la B.iHtie, in the Momoirea iln rAcademia dw Jnaeripliaai 
et nelloa-Lettiea fur 1740 and 1751. See abo Rifleaaiom. sie^ 
p. 905. 

5 " And if the virtue or prudnncf of Lanra was inexorakla 
he nuoyed. and mipht bon«t of ei^oyina the nymph of poet- 
ry." Decline and Fall. rap. Ixx. p. 397. vol. xiL ocL PW- 
haps the ^ is here meaut for aUkngk. 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



113 






r 



the oMBMBi of him death to the prntnt bour, bare, it 
My be hoped, > better chanca of ■rthimtirity than the 
Saifpearian memoriale of Slratfiinl-iipoi^ATOD. 

Arqu^ ((or the last sjrilable ia aoceated in pronun- 
anion, although the wmktgf of the Elngliah language 
Im becD oh— Te d ia the vene), ii twelre miles from 
hdo, tDd about diree miles oo the right oT the high 
lad to Rovigoi, in the boeom of the Euganean hills. 
JUw 1 walk of tvreoftj nuDutes, acroai a flat well- wooded 
■adow, jrou eome to a little blue lake, dear but fathom- 
k*! and to the foot of a succeswon of acclivities and 
Ub, daihed widi Tineyards and orchards, rich with fir 
mA pomegranate frees, and every funny fruit-shrub. 
n«B dke banks of the lake, the road winds into the hilU, 
■d d» church of Arquh is soon seen between a deft 
ikoe two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly 
iakielbe Tillage. The houses are acattered at inter\*als 

■ 4e neep sides of these summits; and that of the 
poet if on the edge of a little knoll orerlodcing two dc- 
oati, and commanding a view not only of the gtowing 
^Bdem in the dales inmiectiately beneath, but of the 
^nk pbina, aboro whose low woods of mulberry and 
vikie tf i icke n ed into a darit mass fay festoons of vines, 
tifl <in^e cypresses, and the apireo of towns are seen 

■ the Stance, which atretcbes to the mouths of the Po 
lad the shores of the Adriatic. Tlie climate of dicse 
vikaiiic luDs is warmer, and the vintage begins a week 
nooer than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, 
far be canaoi be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of 
nd marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, 
lad preserved from an association with meaner tombs, 
b stands conapicnously alone, but will be soon over^ 
ihadowed by finir lately-planted laurels. Petrarch's 
fcaauin, for here every thing is Petrareh's, springi and 
wpan d i itself beneath an artifidal arch, a little below 
da diudi, and abounds plentifully, in the driest season, 
nh dist soft water which was the ancient wealth of 
tbe Eugaaean hifls. It would be more attractive, wer» 
ii aoc, in aoaw aeaaoos , beaet with homsts and wasps. 
Ko other eoinddence eotild assimilate the tombs of 
Pdrareh and Archilochus. The revolutions of centu- 
ries have spared these sequestered valleys, and the 
3aly violence which has been cflfered to the ashes of 
hirardi, was prompted, not fay bate, but veneration. 
Aa attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of its 
^fasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a Florcn- 
Ibe, through a rent which b still visible. Tlie injury is 
Boi fiifgotten, but baa served to identify tho poet with 
ibe country where be was born, but where he would 
»A five. A peasant boy of An\ai being asked who 
Petnrdi was, replied, "that the people of tlie par- 
sonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that 
be was a Florentine.'* 

Mr. Fonyth * was not quite correct in saying, that 
Petrarch never returned lo Tuscany after he had onco 
qeined it when a boy. It appears he did pasa through 
Fkrence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his 
netura in the year ISoO, and remained there kng enough 
lo fcrm some acquaintance with its most di^nnguishcd 
iabahiianfs. A F kn ei Ki ne gentleman, ashamed of the 
avvrsioo of the poet for his native country, was eager to 
peistout this trivial error in our aocomplidicd traveller, 
wbom be knew and respected for an extraordinary 



capacity, extensive erudition, and refmed taste, joined 
to that engaging simplicity of manners which has been 
so frequently recognised as the sivest, though it is cer- 
tainly not an indispensable, trait of superior genius. 

Every footstep of lAura's lover has been anxiously 
traced and recorded. Tho house in which he lodged is 
shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezso, m order 
to decide the ancient controversy between their dty and 
the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried 
when seven months old, and remained until his seventh 
year, have designated, by a long inscription, the spot 
where their great feUow-citixen was bwn. A tablet has 
been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha, 
at the cathedral, > because he was archdeacon of that 
society, and was only snatched from his intended sepul- 
ture in their church by ti foreign death. Another tablet 
with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on ac- 
count of his having passed the autumn of I3<^ in that 
city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political con- 
dition which has for ages preduded the Italians from 
the criticism of tlie living, has concentrated their 
attention to the illustration of the dead. 

Note 17. Stanza xxxiv. 
Or, it may be, wiUi demons. 
The struggle is to the full as likdy to bo. with demons 
as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- 
ness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our un- 
sullied Jdin Locke preferred the presence of a child ta 
complete solitude. 

Note 18. Stanza xxxvui. 

In fnre of all his foes, the CruACsn (pure ; 
And Boileau, whose rash envy, etc. 

Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 

Tasso, may servo as well as any other specimen to juit- 

tify the opinion given of the harmony of French verse. 

A Maibprlie. k Rarnn, pr^rdrcir Thdciphile, 
£t le clinquant du TsMe k tout Tur de Virsile. 

8aL ix. vene 176. 

The biographer Scrassi,' out of tenderness to tlie rcpu- 

taticm either of the Italian or the French poet, is eager 

to observe that the satirist recanted or explained away 

this censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the 

Jerusalem to be a ** genius suUinie, vast, and happily 

bora for tlie higher flights of poetry." To this we will 

add, that tlie recantation is far from satisfactory, when 



1 Rsoaarks. ele. os Iialf . p. 9l\ sols, 9d sdU. 



I D. O. M. 

FranriMCo PetrarrhB 

Pnnnrmi Archidiacono. 

Farentihutf pru-claria genera perantkiuo 

Elhicea ChiUtians acriptori ezimio 

Romanv lingua revtituturi 

I'Unuca principi 

Africa ob cannen har in urb« |ie:artnm teg ibui orcito 

S. P. (i. K. lauriia donate. 

Taiiii Viri 

Juveoilium juvenis ■eoilium senex 

BtudiiiMMimua 

Comes Nicolauf Cammicua Cirtxnuru* 

MarmurvH proxima ara excitala. 

Ibiqiiu cundito 

Diva Januaria rruontu corpore 

II. M. I>. 

SufttKTtum 

Bed infra merituai Franciaci irpulchro 

Summa hac in ado etTKrri mandantu 

i*i Parma occumbunit 

Extora morte heu n6bia erepti. 

3 La vita dd TaMO, lib. iii. p. S84. torn, u edit Bergama 
1790. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 





Callcry »ilh<ni[ n H-onl em Iho fVUttrr. It iccnii itruig* 


■i Ia X. •JkxiIJ hiTc bc«n n much Umr.ed >L »»»> 


hn' 'he rhnracliT uf llial d»pulcd dlBlue ahoulil not be 


••uii-r;«Ifti mtormi u lo miuiic the tiboUlioiu of 


onliwly d«id«.l, >t UmI in Ihc mind of u.j one »ho 


■ icr/ilv, «>ui imy-Bd all lh« Icuiiing on ihioKkr ud 




k;)iUd; IS pnm the imiai favoinble { beting whli 


of S<. Piuil Hiclmul Ilio wdli, il Bami, nhcre Ihs whole 


nr luh ohKli unick Ibe wilb of VaHtn, kuJ betwl- 


gro..!. .^Uic fiblc of Manyu u im in toknble pm- 


-j i-»t -liirh pUfRt ut»D > gua u Fioreiice, >ii<l 


H'niilion; mil Ihc Scythian ileyc ohttliiig Iho kniTa 


Uvi^J ihe i-oBiificUc of oiH of iu ciiii«u.> 


a reprmcuied eiuily in (be iinie position u ihie 


Now!!2. SuDsluL 


cctebrunl miiiti'rpii'n'. TIk >Uvc b luX mkcd t bul 
■ i. eiwiT lo got rW of ihii difficuhy iluin lo nippcn 


T^Wflinu, XLII. Mid XLIII.,in, xllhihe «■ 


the kiiire in Ihe hand of Iho Durcntine •lU.ie u in- 


ttjin. of 1 line or mo, ■ traintalign of Ihs binoui 
I'^ii^PilKij.: 

" l;.iu. lulM. ID cui fa. 1. •OTU." 

Note tS. Biwu iliT. 

«-.Bil«« i. ,.uih. 1 tn»j it» *.l»i of hhn. 


•Iniineiit itt ilKnns, which it tauA be, if, >| Luui 
■ujixvee, the mui b no odirr Ihnn Ihs baibei vCJu- 


liui C™r. Wiiikelnmnn, iUuMmtmg > bM-wlief of 
the »nio Biljecl, follow. Ihf opinion oTLi^onud Ago^ 


<iai, and hi* einhority might luve bo'n tlKHght c«i- 
eliKin-, einn if ibo ictmbluxK did nut iKnke the mo«t 


Tw Blehrupl IrtitroTSer-.u. S<il!.icuii to Cki^on 




icdeub of hb daughler, deuibei u rt Ihiia <fu, inl 


Amonp. Uw bmn«- of the «,iie princ I'ly olkclion. 


fro u, m pub which I ulieii Incnl in Unxce, iMh by 


i. «iU to W KHr, ihi) i.«rib«! iMn cTiii! ud eom- 


M ud lind, in diScnnl joumoyi mi n»«e«^ 




■'Ob my reuur. frgcn A«i^ u 1 »u Hilin( fiom 


■ODK diffirultirti, bul did not ilciiM from his inum- 




tiun; hRiiiifht l-c tciol to hoar thU bis <:riliriini hu 


(>or,rcl uT iIk couKiTUM ■muDd im; £|iin ITU betaiml, 


bc<^n thrown uway on an inecfiptiun now geuoraJlf r»- 


JUfai Wi«. me; Pimu on ihe lighl, CuciMh on tlic 


cognJKd to be » furgm. 




NiXcStt. Stanza 'J. 




-— — hi.««to.heoiiBtu™. 


ii^l, 1 cuuU Dol bell Ibink procnlly wilhin myncK; 


Fei-dina on Ihf iwm rhevk. 
OCiIluXfiDir (in Jr. 


] .<t~»3. ini- 409. fd>>. Lntd. B.1. ]WT. 


"...Alqu*orillBlpnciiluur.|iMHKH."— Oriil..*m*.hB.n 


1 Vid. J. V. nulwiTI. ilD Titm mani M FulmilliblH, III). 




)<H.vl «»»ic»si;( iri,..t Jirri, Mn «i it aai 


1 n,. HMilklon-IJiiliiTT of Iht L>li^ oTH. Tullloi CVtn. 


•ufMI. riW. flri>P». on- J- C BllIoH. « up. 




.'5;f &"-,&-' —-^ .. » «. ^. ^ 


3 Hw :ii<inl>il. Ant. loAl. par. i. "P- ■""• P- ■Ii'- P««- » 


is'JS'SS/-"''*^!**''' 


■iKlMona d-IW ar.i. «c. lib. Ji. tw. i. lorn. «. P. 314. iim. B 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



11 



ff ilKMe who are interested in the perrenion not only 
of the luture of actions, but the meaning of words, 
i&at what was once patnatimny has by degrees conio to 
fifiiify dehttue/u Wc hare ourselves outlived the old 
waoing of ** hberalitjr," which is now another word for 
treuon in one country and (or infatuation in all. It 
KCOB to have been a strange mistake to accuse the au- 
Jkv of the mince, as being a pander to tyranny ; and 
» think that the inqinsition would condemn his work 
far such a definquency. The fact is, tnat Madiiavi'lli, 
u IS uwal with, those against whom no crime can be 
pmred, was suspected of and diarged with athciz^m ; 
ttd the 6rst and last most Tiolcnt opposcrs of the Princt* 
*tre both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the inqui- 
ikkm *' benchft fbese tardo,** to prohibit the treatise, 
and the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine 
nviAc u no better than a fuol. The father Po<*:evin 
vu proved never to have read the bnc^, and the father 
Luechesiiu not to hare understood it. It is clear, how- 
ever, that such critics must have objected not to the | 
ismj of the doctrines, but to the supposcnl tendency ! 
ftf • lesson which shows how distinct are the interests 
of a oMoarch from the happiness of niaiikind. The 
J«saits are re-established in Italy, and the last chapter 
«f the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- 
tion, from those who are empbyed onco more in ' 
moalding the minds of the ri»ing generation, so as to 
receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter 
tcU9 for title, " Esonauonc a libcrare la Italia dai Bar- 
ban," and concludes with a lilertine excitement to the 
ibtore redemption of Italy. *'iVon a deve adunque 
Ivaar panan tpuida occarianey acfiocchi la Italia 
tc^^4 dap9 Umtn tempo apparire «n tuo retlentorr. 
Xi pano erprimtre can qval amort ei fuue ricet^tUo in 
bUfe ^tile provineief eht hanno pnlito per qutste il- 
biivfu esferiM, eon qual aele di txndettOf eon che o«- 
tinatafede, eon che larrime. Quaii parte st H itrrre- 
rtbew 7 ^ual& jtoptdi U negherehbeno la ohlicdirvza ? 
Q'iaU Italiatto K negherehhe P osmquio ? ad OG:ru:ro 
rrzzA. quciTO bakbaro domikio.*' ' 

Note SO. Stanza Irii. 

UoffTatefhl Fktrenee ! Dante sleeps afar. 

Dante was bom in Florence in the year 1:201. lie 

pjnijtii in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, 

ao-i ooce prior of the republic. When the party of 

Cbirles of Ar^ou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was 

absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface VIII. and was 

condemned to two years' banishment, and to a finn of 

e:|ht thousand lire ; on the non-payment of which lie 

«a9 fiirther punished by the sequestration of all lii.s 

pri}perty. The republic, however, was rot content with 

i^< satis&ctian, for in 1772 was diricovcred in the 

archives at Florence a sentence in whirh Dante is the 

* e:«Tenth of a list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be 

burnt aliTt ; TaUi pertenieiu igne cnmburatur sic qwnl 

tnor^KT. The pretext for this judgment was a proof 

oTunfiur barter, extortions, and illicit gains: Bar arte- 

rvmn im/purHnty extortinntim, rt iliiritnrum lurro' 

rvwty* and with such an accusation it is not strange that 

Dante should have always protested his innocence, and 

1 D Principe di Nirenlo Marihinvelli, etc., con la prcfazione 
* k note isloriebe e politirhi! ili M. Amelut dtt in HDiinaye, e 
lV«\nie e eoafotasioiM d«iU' opera.... Cosmopoli, 1769. 

2 SItorU dslla Lett Ital. torn. v. lib. iii. par. S. pag. 448. 
'^irnhoMhi ■ faieomM!t : the datea of the three dserees sgamat 
U^Aie art A. D. VMO, 1314. sod 1310 

o 



the ii\iuatice of his fellow-citizens. His appeal to Fl 
rcncc was accompanied by another to the Kmper 
Henry, and tlie death of that sovereign, in 1313, w 
the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. I 
had before bngered near Tuscany, with hopes of reca 
then travelled into the north of Italy, where Veroi 
had to boast of his lungest residence, and he fiAal 
nettled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but n 
constant abode until his death. The rcfiisal of the V 
netians to grant him a public audience, on the part 
Guido Novcllo da Polenta, his protector, is said to ha' 
been the principal cause of this evem, which hapi>eni 
in 1321. He was buried (** in sacra minorum oMty 
at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erecti 
by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, pret 
for that republic which had refused to hear him, aga 
roKtored by Cardinal Corsi in 169:2, and replaced by 
Mil ire magnificent sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at ti 
expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. T 
ofloncu or misfortune of Dante was an attachment to 
defeated party, and, as his least favourable biographc 
allege against him, too great a freedom of speech ai 
haughtiness of mainner. But the next ago paid honoti 
almost divine to the exile. The Florentines, having 
vain and frequently attempted to recover his bod 
crowned his image in a church,* and his picture is si 
one of the idols of their cathedral. They struck mcda 
they raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, r 
being able to dispute about his own birth, contend 
for that of his great poem, and the Florentines thou^ 
it for their honour to prove that he had finished t 
seventh Canto, before tliey drove him from his naii 
city. Fifly-one years after his death, they eudowec 
professional chair for the expounding of his verses, a 
Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employmei 
The example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa, and t 
roinnicntators, if they performed but little ser\-ice 
literature, augmented the veneration which beheld 
sacred or moral allegory in all the images of his mys 
muse. His birth and his infancy were discovered 
have been distinguif>hcd above those of ordinary me 
the author of the Decameron, his earliest biograph* 
relates that his inotlier was warned in a dream of t 
importance of her pregnancy; and it was foimd, 
others, that at ten years of age he had manifested I 
firecocious passion for that wisdom or theology whi( 
under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken foi 
sul).stantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy li 
boon recognis(!d as a mere mortal protiuction, and 
the distance of two centuries, when criticism and coi 
petition had sobered the judgment of Italians, Dai 
wa«j seriously declared superior to Homer,' and thmi 
the preference appeari:d to some casuists " a hcretit 
blasphemy worthy of the flames," the contest was v 
orotisly maintained for nearly fifty years. In la 
times, it was made a question which of the lonfs 
Verona could lioast of having patronized him,' and t 
jealous scepticism of one writer would not allow J 
venna the undotibted [losscssinn of his bones. Ei 
the critical Tirahoschi was inclined to believe that I 

1 Bn relntoN Firinn. hut soidd think his coroDAtion onlj 
nllr^iiry. i^'f Storia, cfr., ul Mip. p. 4S3, 

2 By Viirchl. in his Errolnno. The contrpryrejr rontini 
from 1570 to 161G. See Bioria, etc., torn. vu. lib. ev liar 

^3 Gio. Jsropo Dioniii canonico di Verona. Bene di An 
doti, D. 3. See Storia. etc, tom. v. Ub. ». pai. \).^n. 



116 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



poet had foreseen and foretcdd one of the discoveries of 
Galileo. Like the great originals of other nations, his 
popularity has not always maintained the same level. 
The last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a 
model and a study ; and Bcttinclli one day rebuked his 
pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh and obsolete 
extravagancies of the Commedia. The present genera- 
tion, having recovered from the Gallic idolatries of 
Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient worship, anfl the 
Danteggaire of the northern Italians is thought even 
indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. 

Tliere is still much curious information relative to 
the life and writings of this great poet, which has not 
MM yet been collected even by Uie Italians ; but the cele- 
bnOed Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect; 
and it is not to be regretted that this national work 
has been reserved for one so devoted to his country 
and the cause of truth. 

Note 31. Stanza Ivii. 

Likt Scipio. baried by the upliraidin^ shore ; 
Thjr factions, ia Ujeir worse than civil war, 
ProKribffd, etc. 

The elder Scipio Afncanus had a tomb, if he was not 

boned, at Liternum, whither he had retired to volim- 

taiy banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, 

and the story, of an inscription upon it, Ingrata Patna, 

having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, 

an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly 

lived there.* 

In coii sn^tta e solitaria villa 

Era 'I cruud' uoroo cbe d'Africa ii'appella 

Percbd prima col feno al vivo appriila. > 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar to 
rq>ablics ; and it seems to be forgotten, that, for one 
instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred 
exajnples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a 
people have ollen repented — a monarch seldom or 
never. Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, 
a short story may show the difference between even 
an aristocracy and the multitude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Porto* 
loogO) and many years afterwards in the more decisive 
acdon of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the 
Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The 
Awogadori proposed to behead him, but the supreme 
tribunal was content witli the sentence of imprison- 
ment. Whilst Pisani was suffering this unmerited dis- 
grace, Chioza, in the vicinity of the capital,' was, by 
the assistance of the Signor of PadiM^ delivered into 
the hands of Pictro Dona. At the intelligence of that 
£saster, the great bell of St. Mark^s tower tolled to 
aims, and the people and tlio soldiery of the galleys 
summoned to the rrpuUo of the approaching 



service. " I have submitted,'* rcpUed the magnamnoM 
republican, "I have submitted to ycfox deliberatiQai 
without complaint ; I have supported patiently the puai 
of impris<Hunent, for they were inflicted at your oonn- 
mand : this is no tmie to inquire whether 1 deserved 
them — the good of the ropuUic may have seemed to 
require it, and that which the republic resolves is alwaji 
resolved wisely. Behold me ready to lay down my lift 
for the preservation of my country." Pisau was ap- 
pointed generalissimo, and, by his ezertioos, in ooiQiai^ 
tion with those of Garb Zeno, the VoietiaoB sooq ra> 
covered the ascMndancy over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian commimities were no less unjust to thar 
citizens than the Greek repuUics. Liberty, bodi wAk 
the one and the other, seems to have been a nstinnil, 
not an individual object : and, notwithstanding the boailp 
ed equality before the (oiot, which an anaent Greek 
writer ' considered the great distinctive mark beti 
his countrjrmen and the barbarians, the mutual 
of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal 
scope of the old democracies. The world may have not 
yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian RepoUici^ 
in which the distinction between tho liberty of finMr 
states, and the signification attached to that word 1^ tfia 
happier constitution of England, is ingenioudy dcf^ 
oped. The Italians, however, when they had ceased 10 
be free, still looked back with a sigh up<m those times of 
turbulence, when every citizen might rise to a share ef 
sovereign power, ancl have never becq taught fiiDy to 
appreciate the repose of a monarchy. Spcrone Speraai, 
when Francis Maria II. Duke of Rovero proposed (he 
question, ** which was preferable, the republic or the 
principality — the perfect and not durable, or the hss 
perfect and not so liable to change," replied, ** that ov 
happiness is to be measured by its quality, not by its 
duration ; and that he preferred to live for one day like 
a man, than for a himdred years like a brute, a stock, 
or a stone.'' This was thought, and called, a 
nj^fictnt answer, down to the last days of Italian 
vitude.* 

Note 32. Stanza Ivii. 



-and th« crown 



enemy ; but they protested they would not move a 
step, unless Pis^ini were liberated, and placed at their 
head. The great council was instantly assembled : tho 
prisoner was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea 
Contarini, informed him of the demands of the people 
and the necessities of the state, whose only ho[>o of 
safety was reposed on !iis cffurlfl, and who implored 
him to forgive the indignities he had endured in her 



1 Vitam Literal exit line desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist. 
Kb. zxxviii. Livy reports that lome said he was buried at 
litamam, oihori at Rome. lb. cap. Iv. 

3 Trioofo Jella Castitk. 

t Has note to itaDza Xlii. 



Which Petrarch '■ laureate brow lupremelj wore. 
Upon a far and foreign toil had grown. 

The'Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe 
trarch's short visit to their city, in 1360, to revoke the 
decree which confiscated the property of his father, 
who had been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. 
His crown did not dazzle them ; but when, in the next 
year, they were in want of his assistance in the fbrmatioD 
of their uiuversity, they repented of their iryustice, and 
Boccaccio was sent to Padua to entreat the laureat tc 
conclude his wanderings in tho bosom of his native 
coimtry, where he might finish his immortal Africa, and 
eiqoy, with his recovered possessions, the esteem of aU 
classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the a^ 
tion of the book, and the science he might condescend 
to expound : they called him the glory of lus coQntr>. 
who was dear, and would 1)0 dearer to them ; and they 
added, that if there was any thing tmpleasing in their 
letter, he ought to return amongst them, were it only to 



1 The Greek boasted that he was /ffOfo/tof.—.See the Isfl 
chapter of the fimt book of DionTntis of Halicamainis. 

S " E Intomo oZ/a magnifica risp^tOt** etc. Berassi, Yiti 
dd Tasao, lib. iii. pag. 149. tcmi. ii. edit 2, Bergamo* 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



11 



comet liieir strle. ^ Petrarch seemed il firrt to listen to 
liK hntTf and tn the entrealiea of hii friend, but he did 
m. p lu.'D to F]on:oce, and preferred a pilxrimAge to 
tt ;onib of Liiira and the shades of Vauduac. 

Note 33. Stanza Iviii. 
p<MTaccio to hi* parent earth bequMth'd 

Bocracci-j w^s buried in the church of Su Michael and 
^ Jum, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdclsa, 
«tjch was by «ofne suppoiicd the place of liis birth. 
TVnhe paMcd the latier part of his life in a course of 
kMmu etiklr, whicb shortened his existence ; and 
ijw mizfat his ashes have been secure, if not ofhonoiir, 
Klcist of repose. But the "hya*na bigots*' of Certaldu 
\K< up tin; tombstone of R<ircaccio, anil cjif-teil il from 
irebily precints of St. Michael and St. Jamcx. The 
crrm^n, axsi, it nwiy be hoped, the excuse of \h\« ejtvt- 
lariil, va« the cnakms of a new floor for the church : 
H rS* brt is, that i)ie tniiihst<Mio was taken up and 
unmn i^idc at the bottom of the building. I;;n<)ranrr; 
ii»»*hir« the sin with liijolrj*. It would be painful to 
reji« *urh an exception to the devotion of tlie Italians 
Sv thi if zreat nvnen, could it not be accompanied by a 
frftii mrf honoivably conf irmable to the f^eneral char- 
i^-CTofihc nation. The principal person of the disctrictf 
tr ivi branch of the hoine of McdicL<i, afforded that 
;tt)iiTt:(Hi to the mcmnry tjf the insulted dead which 
ttf V«t ancestor* had dniicnscd uprm all cotemporary 
B»«Ti!. Tiic MarrhinnesA Lonznni rescued the tombstone 
ef Bxi*irriofroni the neglect in which it had some time 
Uin, an-1 found for i*. an honourable elevation in her own 
Banflffli. She has done mi»rt?: the house in which the 
pj^t li\fhl has been as little re^ficcled as his tomb, and 
B biline to ruin over t>ie head of one indifferent to the 
■tar of i's former tenant. It consists of two or three 
!jl« chamlivrs, and a low tower, on which Cosmo II. 
ifii' ■! an in^rripti'in. This hotise she ha<i taken meas- 
nre« '0 pTiroha^!, and proposes to devote to it that care 
lai c-<n<ideration whicli are attached to the cradle and 
*> v-t r«f of ^nius. 

Tt.:* 1- not the place to undertake the drfencc of Boc- 
nccri; but tlie man who exhaiii<teil his little palririiony 
«Lhe arquiremcnt of Ieamin£, who was amon:>$-t the 
4^'. ii'nut the first, to allure the science aiiil the poetry 
of Gr«wce tothc boKoin of Italy ; — «ho iu>t only invented 
t tew rtyle, imt f^iutulefl, or certainly fixed, a new lan- 
luas^ : H ho, be!<if ies the citcimi of every polite court of 
Etir '?r, was thought worthy of eNi|>loynient by the pre- 
Anm r -i;:! republic of his own country, and, what is 
air.j. of iho triendsWp of Petran'h, «ho livrd the life 
of a n'liI'jSKphcr and a freeman, and who died in the 
pjT*-:.? of knowltdqe, — «iich a man mi^jnt have foun.! 
i!y*K con-«i-!fTat;iin than he has met with fmm the 
pri»:*i o'"CcrtaWo, and from a late English traveller, who 
rrik<4 off his ponrait as an otlitriis, contenipiihN;, li- 
wa'JTjs writer, who«e impure remains should bu suf- 
Sa»i |.»rot without a rcropl.* That £n^1i^ll traveller, 






unfortunately for those who have to deplore thi; loss < 

a VI TV (imiabli* jierson, is beyond all criliciimi ; but tl 

mortahty ^^hich did not pnitect BtKcarcio fr-»m M 

Eustaci-, nnwi nut defend Mr. Eustace from the impa 

tial jud:>iiieiil of his surcirssory. Death may can«jni: 

his virtue!*, not his errors ; and it may be nioilr-stlv jiri 

nounced that he transprcsiicd, not only as an anthn 

hut as a man, when he <.voked the shade of Roccacc 

in company with that of Aretim), aii)id->t the soiuilchn 

of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with indignity. J 

fur as respects 

" n rta?"}]!) do* Princ ini. 
II diviii IViro Arttiiio. 

it is of liltic im[)ort what censure is passed upon a co: 

comb who owes his present existence to the ulM>ve Ihi 

Ipw|ue rharartcr e«ven to him by the fKMit whnye amb< 

has p«'ser\'e«l many other fnibs and worms : but I 

classify Bf>craccio with such a person, and to cxcon 

municate his very ashes, must of itself make us doul 

of the (]ualificution of the classical touiist for writir 

upon Italian, or, indeed, ujion any other lileralure; fi 

ignorance on one fioint may incapacitate an auth< 

merely for that particular topic, but subjection to a pr< 

fcssional prejudirc must render him an un<afe iiircct< 

on all occasions. Any pen-ersion and injustice may I 

made what i's vulcarly called " a case of conscience, 

and this poor excuse is all that can \h\ offered for tli 

priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical Toui 

It would have answered the puqiose to confine the cer 

sure to the imvi'ls of Koecaccio, and latitude to th; 

souree wliii'h supplied the muse of Drvdeii with her la- 

ami mo<it harmoniitus niiml>cr<«, might perlm]is have n 

strirted that censure to the objectionable r{U!dities o 

the humlre<l tales. At any rate, the repentimee of Hoc 

caccio mi^'ht have arresteti his exhumation, and it shoiil 

have iM-en recollected and told, that in 1 is oil ago h 

wrofo a Niter enlreatinij hi:* friend to disroiiraye th 

reading of the D«*cainenin, for the sake of mode^Jty, un 

for the sake of the author, who would not have an apoli 

pi«st always at hand to state in his excuse that he wniie 

when yiituiL', and at the command of his superiors." 1 

is neither tln! hccntiousness of the writer, nw the ev 

pro;><'n«ities of the reader, which have piven to the l>r 

ramiTon alone, of all the works of Boccaccio, a perpe' 

unl {KJpularity. The eslablishmentof ancwanddrli:rhl 

fill dialert coiifern-il an immortality on tin; works i 

which it was first t\\*'t\. The sonnets of IV:lr:in:h wen: 

(^ir the same rt-asnn, f.itifl to survivu his self-aijinin' 

Afriea, ihe *\f\irourifr ff Aim;™-*.'' The invarialtN; tniii 

of natiir«r an«l feelin|7, wiih which the novels, lis wi«ll a 

t!ie vorst^-i. ah'itiii'l, !iave, doubtless, l»een thi' chi' fsnure 

offiie fiireii;ii ri-|i-!irify oj'lioth authors; but Iliiei-jirnn 

a<-''. man, is n<i more to In: CHtimated hv Ihii unrk, tliai 

Petrirrh is to !«■ n-::*irdeil in no othor h«;!il than u.< fli' 



Thi* «hiliioil« phrt>i> i>i li:ir<llv enmieh to h-iv» I: ■> Tiiiiri> 
fniiii \\tt'. Hii«pi<*iiin nl nimUn-r bliindiT rf^i'if rtii.i.' i! ■■ l--in-ii 
plilf_i» of Ari-t)iii>. wlni«ii' I'liii'i wjis in llii- i*(:iir<-|i nt t^". I.iiki 
nt V«<iiirt>, Hli'i .MM- rioi' In till' rnnniH i-'iiitruxi nv "f v\'\' ! 



I " A'^rntiii inniil'rr*. •«• cm- Wifo nni*nr I'l— ortiirti. n rum- **>"'<? ri'Hi»'i< is t iki-n iii ri-iv'f. Nior 'he wnn'- ni' Mr. I"ih 

I?' r iift-noif*! iiin .-M ri- :«.... Pi", ti nvvii-no it'iiirontrnm nA | '■"■'' W'-ii^i \'iu\ in in ih >:k ih" tniiili w:"- auFiiiri n-r, •>»■ -i 

^1 »iiii" roit.-i cfie ti «1p«ipiii*"''i:i. ci-j rfflrb* •■i»M>n' un nllro : '•■■''»'* ^^it" '" l'<'i«Mn:i uh- n- rffiij|,i,.>il. \Vhi'ilii-r i» r t.-'-rip 

r.a!iiii.ii| M^iu.Hin- i dei«id'TJ dellit tiiu putrin." Storia ili'lln •'•"' f'* ni'i"'i ih-pnnil wjm i-\i-r \»r>ni'n «»n iln- ti'iim imihui 

L^9. !•■»!. till], r. par- i. lib. i. pH%. 70, ' utiw In- ilniil'il. i.t n'\ .ii« iinin-.t «il iliii :iiiili« t I"i- I'lmip 

• <".t« •!■■«] Tciur. '•or». ix. vol. ii. p. SSS. rd'u. M. "Of |»"«r»*-l friiiii tin* rhiirrn of ^*^. Luke, whirh bi nou vU:w)itH 

fy^:--.n. the mn/tHrn IVtroniu*. w« nHjr iMiihint : tlie ahn« >"<" a lamp wnrchnuiw. 

1 "Nnii rnim iiImi)iii> p»t, 'jiii in etriisnfioncm nn^nni pon 
mirceiiii «hr:it, jiivi-niii *pri:iHit. #■! iiriinrit '•o.-U'Tii* imi>iTMi.' 
Tli«> letter wnii nili|rf«iMi| tii Machiiiord if (^aviilrriini, mnr 



*f(»Gii« in iftirtt (NliiiiM itnd m<ire roniemprihk; than it^ ftii- 
*»■•; a'd il imtmirt* little where the impure rvroains of a Ii- 
^■: 'iri miihiir ar^ ronaipopd to their kindred dust. For tlu* 
*■<;« r. tinn thf uvi-ellrr mtj paie snnotjcsd the tomb of the 
^*^iUM Arecino.*' 



niml of tJii" kimriUim of Sinlv. S-e Tirnli'isrhi. Storia r*e 
torn. V. par. tu bb. iii. psf . SG5. cd. Veu. 17*15 



130 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



torer of Launu Ejen, howoTer, had the father of the 
Tuscan prose been known only as the author of the 
Decameron, a considerate writrar would have been cau- 
tious to pronounce a sentence irreconcileable with the 
unerring voice of many ages and nations. An irrevocap 
Ue value has never been stamped upon any worii soldy 
recommended by impurity. 

The true source of the outcry against BoccacciO| which 
began eX a very early period, was the choice of his scan- 
dalous personages in ^e cliMsters as well as the courts ; 
out the princes only laughed at the gallant adventures 
80 unjustly charged upon Queen Theodelinda, whilst the 
priesthood cried shame upon the debauches drawn from 
the convent and tho hermitage ; and, most probably, for 
the opposite reason, namely, that the picture was faithful 
to the life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts 
usefuUy turned into tales, to deride the canonization cf 
rogues and laymen. Ser Ciapdolletto and Marcellinus 
are cited with applause even by the decent Muratori.* 
The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in Bayle, states, that 
a new edition of the novels was proposed, of which the 
expurgation consisted in omitting the words ** monk " 
and "nun,*' and tacking the immorahties to other 
names. The literary history of Italy particularizes no 
such ediuon ; but it was not long before the whole of 
Europe had but one opinioM of the Decameron ; and the 
absolution of the author seems to have been a point set- 
tled at least a hundred y^ars ago : " On se ferait siffler 
■i Van pr^tendaitconvaincre Boccace de n'avoir pas 6tii 
lonni&te homme, puisqu'il a fait le Decameron." So said 
one of the best men, and perhaps the best critic, that 
ever lived — the verytnartyr to impartiality." But as this 
infoimation, that in the beginning of the last century 
one would have been hooted at for pretending that Boc- 
caccio was iK)t a good man, may seem to come from 
one of those enemies who are to be suspected, even 
when they make us a present of trull»; a more accept- 
able contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, 
and muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words 
from the righteous, the patriotic contemporary, wno 
thought one of the tales of this impure writer worthy a 
Latin version from his own pen. " / have remarktd 
eUewherCf'^* says Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, "<Aat 
the book itedf hae been voorried by certain doge, but 
etoutly defended by your ttqf and voice. Nor woe I 
aatom»hed^ for I have had proof of the vigour of your 
mind, and I know you have faden on that unaceom- 
modadng incapable race of mortaU vjho, whaUx^ they 
either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are ture to 
repr^nd in othert, and on those ococwums only put on a 
$how ofkarrdng and ehquence, but otherwiee are entirely 

dumb.^ 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do not 
resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who 
did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose 
the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 



I Diaierta»oni eopn. \tt antichitk luliano. Diss- Mii. p. SS3. 
turn. iii. edit Milan, 1751. 

8 Eelaireusement, etc. etc. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in tho 
tfuppleroent to Bayle^i Dictionary. 

3 " Animadverti alicubi lihruro ipsum canum dentibos la- 
cewitum tuo tamon baculo egrefio tuaqae voce derenaum. 
Nee miratuf turn : nam ot viroi incenii tui novi, et kio exper- 
hM eases hominam genaa inaolens nt unavum^ qui, qoicquid 
ipn vol nolunt, vel De«:innt, vel non powunt, in aliis repre- 
hendnnt; ad hoc nnum docti et arfuti.. ted ehnfues ^ reli- 
Qua." vpvA Joao Booeatx). opp. torn. i. o. MO. sdit Basik 



Bevius, canoiiof Padua, at the be^mung of the Ito 
century, erected at Arquh, opposite to the tomb of ihi 
laureat, a tablet, in which he associated Boecsceb « 
the equal honours of Dante and Petrarch. 

Note 84. Stanza Ix. 

What is her pyramid of predoos stones 1 

Our veneration for the Medici begins mth Cosne, as 

expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure onljr i 

the source ; and it is in search of some menMrial of tk 

virtuous republicans of the family, that we visit Ik 

church of St. Lorenzo at Fbrence. The tawdry, gkri^ 

unfinished chapel in that chyrch, designed for the mai 

soleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowi 

and coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of ca 

tempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, wlul 

the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father oft 

Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici.' It w 

very natural for Corinna^ to suppose that the stati 

raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capeUa de depeei 

was intended for his great namesake ; but the mafni 

cent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coffin half hidd 

in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dsl 

from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the aepdeb 

peace which succeed^ to the estidilishment of the rei| 

ing families in Italy, our own Sidney has given as 

glowing, but a faithful picture. " Notwithstanding 

the seditions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscai 

the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibehns, Neri t 

Bianchi, nobles and conmions, they continued popuki 

strong, and exceedmg rich ; but in the space of leas th 

a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable reign of t 

Medices is thought to bave destroyed nine parts in t 

of the people of that province. Amongst other tfaii 

it is remarkable, that when Philip the Second of Spt 

gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his amh a ss a i 

then at Home sent him word, that he bad given aw 

more than 650,000 subjects ; and it is not believed tb 

are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and tm 

tory. Fisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other lowi 

that were then good and populous, are in the like p 

portion diminished, and Florence more than ai 

When that city had been long troubled with seditio 

tumults, and wars, for the most part unprosperou^, tl 

still retained such strength, that when Charles Yi 

of France, being admitted as a friend with his wh 

army, which soon after conquered the kingdon 

Naples, thought to master them, the people taldng ai 

struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to dep 

upon such conditions as they thought fit to impo 

Machiavel reports, that, in that time, Florence alo 

with the Val d^Amo, a small territory belonging to t 

city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bdl, br 

together 135,000 well-armed men ; whereat now t 

city, with all the others in that province, are brought 

such despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and ba 

ness, that they can neither resist the oppressions of tl 

own prince, nor defend him or themselves if thqr w 

assaulted by a foreign enemy. The people are di^Mn 

or destroyed, and the best families sent to seek habi 

tions in Venice, Genoa, Bome, Naples, andLuoea. T 

IS not the effect of war or pestilence ; they eqjoy apoti 

peace, and suffer no other plague than the 



1 Cosmos Medices. Decreto Publico. Patar Patri*. 

2 Corinne, Liv. xviii. cap. iii. voU iii. pafft 948 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



]2 



ih<T an* iiiMk-rJ From the usurper Coamo down to ihc 
«l*r lie Gasron, we look in vain for anv oflliow iinniixed 
911^11. * \\\\Kh should nuse a patrioC to the command of 
iu> li :>jw-i-iti2CD*. The Graud Duken, and particularly 
'Ji-: luird CoMno, had oficrated to entire a chan^ in tlic 
1 ibraii character, that ilic candid Florentines, in excuse 
u siirac uiiperfectjons in the ]>hilanthropic system of 
L-opiiU, arc obliged to coDfess that the sovvreifjn was the 
ody liUsral man in his dominions. Yet that excellent 
pnncc himself had no other notion of a national a»- 
lenUr, than of a body to represent the wants and 
mMbOj not the will of the people. 

Note 35. Stanza Ixiii. 
Ao earthquake lesl'd uohsededly s%ray 



a semicircle, and running down at each end to tlie lal 
which obliquf^ lo llie ri^ht, aiul form* the chord oft] 
muiiiitaiu un;. The }Ki>ition cajinut he guessed at fn 
ilic jilaiiis c»r Cortona, nor appears to be so complcti 
inclosed unless to oiw wjio is fairly within the Jiills. 
then, iniiecd, appears "a place made as it were on pi 
fwse for a simrc," **Ltcus iiuiUiiM w/j/w.*." Kor^hetto 
then found to stand in a narrow niar>hy pass close 
the hill and lo the lake, whilst there is no nther otitlct 
the op|wbile turn of the niuuntairu; than through tlic lit 
town of l*asiL'nan«>, which is pushed into the water by t 
fool of a hii»li rocky acclivity.' There is a wootlv en 
neui.c hran(;hing down from llie nunuitains into the u 
per enil of the plain iK;arer to the side of Passi^nano, a 



"And tueh wa» their mutual minumlif, 90 interU on tins stands a white village called Torro. Pol>biusscei 
iRTk thty vpon the btUlU^ that the earthqutJte^ which ^^ alludu to thi-i ennnenci: astheoneon which Ilannil 
ttvtknv in great part vumy of the cities of Italy, : <i"oani{»ed and drew out his heavy-armed Africans a 
rtien turned the eauree of rapid sfreanu, poureii (toril- ' ^I'°^>^i^''^ inaniiLspicuous (tosition.^ From this spot 
tk in upon the ricere^ and tore down the teri/ tnoun- <iei<patche<l his Kalearic anil linht-amied troo|)s rou 
iM«, iciu nnt feU hjt one of the exmbatnnt*,'"'^ Such . t^ir^'igh the Uualandra heights to the right, so as to arri 
if the detcription oXIawj. It may be douiitcd whether ; unstiun, and form an anibusli amongst the broken ace 
■oilcm tactics would admit of such an abstraction. j ^'^'^^^ whicii the road now jasses, aiKl to be reoily to a 

Tne fite of the baUle of Thrasinieno is not to be mis- I "fx^" t^i^ !*'>( i^^"l( uxd above the enemy, whilst the hor 
tkktiL The traveller from the village under Cortona to ^^'"' "P t^"- I>^»^ iM'himl. Flaminius ean:o to the hil 
Cua Ji Piano, the next sta};e on the way to Rome, has, . "*^^'' Koryhrtio at sun><'t ; and, without sending any spi 
fcr tlh! fir«t two or three miles, around him, but more , l»«;fon- him, niarclicd through the pass the next momii 
pinicuUriy to tlie right, that flat land which Hannibal laid ^'^''^' ^''^ *'">' ^">^i M"''c broken, mi th.it he perceiv< 
•MU; m Older to induce the Consul Flaminius to move | nothing of tin.: horse and li;:ht triK)|Mi above and abo 
frrn ArcTzo. On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge - ^*'") <^"^' >^'^^^' *'"!>' il>^- heavy-arincd Carthaginians 
rfhilLs bending down towards the lake of Throsiroene, j^"*"' "" '''^' '»'" «>J'Torre.^ The coiisnl Ixjgan to dro 
ctUed bv Uvy ''niontej Cortoncnscs,*' and now named ^*'^ ^'>^ """X "' tl'*^ ^^^ '"x' >" t'i<' mean time tin: hor 
^ (tuaUndra. The«c liills lie approaches at Ossaja, a '" anibush occupied the pass bt IiiihI hi in at Dorghctt 
(iSa{« which the itineraries pretend to have been so dc- 



KMiuoaicd from the bones fcnind there : but there have 

b«*a 110 bones found tliere, and the battle was fought on 

tih: oOMf nde of the hill. From Ossaja the road begins 

io rl>« a iitile, but dues not |»ass into the roots of the 

B:<iiiijt^iis until the sixty-seventh mile-stone from FIo- 

reace. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, and 

o^linues Cir twenty minutes. Tlie lake is sur)ii seen 

below un the right, with Bi>rghclto, a round tower close 

icnn IM water; and the umhilating hills partially covered 

sithwood amongst whidi tile rood windii, sink by degrees 

into il-.e marshes near to this tower. Lower than the 

rud, drtwn lo the right aniidft these woody hillocks, 

nasnibal jiiaced his borye,' in the jaws of or ratlier al>ove 

like [>as!<, which was between the lake anil the present 

ruad, ind most probably close 10 Borghetto, just unil^r 

tbe liiiir-st of the ** tumuli.*** On a summit to the Ir-A, 

tbove the road, is an old circular ruin which Ihc peasanbi 

call '^the Towerof llannilial the Carthaginian." Arriveil 

1'. the highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial 

virw of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he 

^tsotishi the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale 

UKioied to the left and in front and behind him by the 

GtttJaoHra hills, bending round in a segment larger than 



1 Os fvVT^roment. rhnp. ii. s«^t. xxvi. naei'i2(K eiliL IT'il. 
^4tKj In, tnctrthvT with I.(K-ke anti IIoailk>y, onu of Air. 
Hwar-'a "Hrsi'iraUf" wi iters. 

« ''Tantii«]ue fuit ardor nni'nnniin, ndi-o iiiti'titiiii pnsn.r 
aeimtii^ uiruiri iRrrs motum <ini iiinltHriini iirlniim |iiiii:i> 
f-iistr-.* |ianr« provtravif. avert iiqiie i^urmi miiiilosninm, ninri- 
^uniici'ih* inifljiit, raonb-s lapun iiisi;(ili prornit, nemo pug- 
iu£i:urtt ■<ii»»TiL...*' Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. ciip. ziL 

3 " FViiiim ail IMS faueoN saliiii, tumulii spto tefenlibiu. 
kiOt." TiL Liv. lib. xxii. cup. iv. 

4 -* L'lii maxims montes Cortoneoscs Thrssimcous lubit" 

02 ^ 



Thus the Koinans were completely inclosed, having tj 
lake on the right, the main aniiy on the hill of Torre 
front, the (iiialandra hills tilled with the livht-arinrd < 
their kft Ihink, suid bein:; [trevented from reeding I 
the cavalry, who, the farther they advanced, stop|»cd t 
all the outlets in the rear. A fnt; rising from the lal 
now 5[iri-ad its'.lf over the anny of the consul, but tl 
high laiiiis were in iIh* sunshine, and all ihe differe 
corps in anibuAh lonked lowanls the hill of Torre fort! 
ordiT i>f aiMi k. lliiiinliid gave the signal, and movi 
down froni his |iiisl mi the height. At the sani<> mome: 
all his troops on the eminenres iH-hind and in the tlai 
of Flaminius, ru^heii fnrwanl as it were with one aceui 
into the plain. Tiie Komans, who were fts'ming the 
array iji the mist, suilil<-nly he.inl the ^hnut?< of ll 
enemy anioni:<it thi:ni, on every side, and, bi:fi»re lh« 
could fall into their rtiiks, or draw- tlioir twords, or w 
bv whom thev wire attacked, felt alunce that thev wei 
snrronixii-il iiiul lr»i. 

There are two little riviili-ts whieh run from the Gus 
landra into the lake. Tlie travelUr cntsses the first 1 
these at about a mile alter he comes into the plain, ai 
this diviili-s tin- Tn-^-an from the Pa]»al territories. TI 
second, aljoiit a nunrttrr of a iiiili* fur'hrr on, is ejllc 
**thc hlof>ily nvni«-t,'* and tin- |ii;i>,Mit.s point n-it a 
open spot to the lift helween llu •' .'^■:ii:!Miiirt»o" an 

1 " Imlc <-i)l!i « n!•^llrL'Mllt." Tit. I.i\. iili. x^ii. rap. iv. 

2 Til* fiiv KuTu TjKiffiwrrOi- rfjf r/(,:/'is ^ «!■,'■" »• uvn 
KnTi\iiitr.Tn, Kui This Atl'im nil TuV< i^^'/fii* t\(ii>v |i 
rtiTof! KartcT f/iiToTTtt'ivcc. Ihi-t. Iiii. 111. iii|». Kl. The ui 
count ill I*iil>'iiu« i* not •<» i-:i>ily rn-oiK ilfnlih' wi'h priori 
:i|i|N-arii><-i--( u:i tli:il in Livv; h>- t:i.k« of liiil^ in 'he riill 
.'iiiii li-l\ ol' ilii' pikMi -iiiil \iilli V : Inn MbcM Flaiiiiiuu* ciiicni 
be haii i>m- iiike at the litsiit ot both. 

3 "A tergo Gt super caput duceiifTeinnd'vx.** Tt, \a>( '! 



123 



BYRON'S WURRS. 



Dm hillj^ which, Ihey «»j, was (ho prmcii 
■liughler. Tlw other put oC ths pluin ii c 
thidi-Kt oUtc trees in corn- ground], utd 
■luile level eiCBpt near the eigo of ihe L 
mdeed, mod pribibic thai the btiUe wu 
thii end of lb* nUav, for the lii Utouui 
who^ U (ha begiuung o£ the utjon, bruke 

bare had (o Irarane Ihe whole pUun, u 
through the nunannirariluiniWI. 

1^ Itoimiii tbufhl deeperatuly for thrc 
lb* douh ef rUmioLus wu Ihs lignal fui 
dJMpetmiaa, The Cuthifioiim hone then b 
tbo fugilirei, and the Uka, the monh about 
b^ chiefly (he plain of the Sanguinelto anc 
oflhe Gualaodn, were iLrened with dead, 
old walk on a bleak ridge to the lefl above 



. or dw Ml oTSdiBl- 
I cannot ipeak, not jet having teu iu 
Nota 96. Btana luii. 
An Iiii lita. aiul* iba laritna] aart*. 
w time, place, aad qualiliea oT thii kinJ tt Iri, 

>j. Ttw Ul look* io much like "Ihe beU i^ 
" thai Addiaon thought the deaeent alltideij n 
he gulf in which Atceto plunged inlo Ihe ia- 
egiona. Il b aingular eiM«i|h Ihal two of Ik* 
aacadea in Europe abould ba anilicial-'^hia tf 
lino, and the ona at Ttroli. The traTelio- ii 
r recommended to em^ e the Velino, at kaai la 
the bule lake caltad Pit" di Lup. The Ream 
r was Iha Italian Tempe,' and the ancKOI ca- 
, amaogat other beautiful lanettca, nmarW 



ooemj, and Hannibal the Carthaginiaa is iho 
name remembered on the baiAi of the Per 
Paminiua ia unknown ; Ih 1 (he postiliona o 
hare been taught to ahow the very spot whtj 

battle of TliaaimeiiO, the hialonan hjnBcIf I 
liie generala and Maharbal, preaerved uik 
•ingle name. You overtake the Caithaginia 
Uh same road to Rome. The anliquaiy, 
toatler of the p'lauhouaa at ^poletn, tolls j 
town repulsed Ihe viclorioua enemy, and shi 
(ate alill called Porta ifi AnnAdi. [| ia b 
while to remark Ihat a French u»vel-writet, 
bf Ibe name of the Preaidenl Dupaty, saw ' 
in tha lake of Bolaena, which lay conveni 
waj &om Sienu* to Raoio. 

Note SB. Stania livi. 
Bel thou. CliUinniisI 

oiiiied to eipai 
ffeen Fdigno ai 
I in lUily, is mo 



ilTereni periods ; «Ke In 
pue, and again from The 
view ij 6r lo ba prefcrrc 



Note 39. Btania Iniu. 

The Ihoadofinf Wawtaa. 
e greater pail of Switteriand the aTitandiai n 
by the name of lauwine. 

Note 40. Stanulm. 



if JSSi'^'-ht weri. 



m stanzas may probablj ranlnd the readii l( 
I ^ortArrton'. remaika : " D— n Homo," etc, hB 

to eipren that we become dred of ihe ttA 
we can comprehend the beautr j ihal wt lava 

before we can get by heart ; thai Ihe frcrinM 
L away, and the fijlur« plesaure and adrantaji 
ed and destroyed, by (he «bdu 
ige when we can neither feel 

iKe with life, aa weU a* Latin and Greek, Is 

an be anare of the fuheas of some of iha bisl 
s of Shakspeare ("To ba or Dm to bo," fcr 
a), from the habit of ha>ing (hem hanooad 
at eight years old, as an eiercise, not of IBBd 

hem, the taste b gonp, and the appetite palled. 

Ii«n mom common auihora, and do not naa 



1 idle boyj I 



d 1 beliei 



ind with reason ;-~a pan of Ihe limi 
fas the ha|>[plea1 of my life ; and mt { 
;v. Dr. Jcwph Drury) was tha beiit aj'id ' 
■ c»er poMeiHcd, whose warnings I havf 



<ss:x 



-jA'Tfs.';.-, 



s'fSrifc'wi 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



li 



noord of my feeliiifi lorwmrdB him ihould reach hu 
Cfcs, lei it remind him of one who never thinks of 
hm bat with frr«titude and v«iMralioii— of one who 
voiiJ more f laJly boaut of haTinf been his pupil, if, 
by nnre c'ooely following Ui iiuunctions, he could 
reflea any honour upon his instructor. 

Note 4i; Stu«a Iititj 
The Sciinus' tomb ooatsins nq atbci now. 
For a comment (» this and the two following stanzas, 
dhi reader may consult Historical Dlustratioos of the 
Foonh Canto of Childe Harold. 

Note 42. Stanxa bxzii. 
Tbe tveUr handled tipipiplM! 
OrasiaB gives three hundred knd twenty for the 
mmiba of triumphs. He is followed by Panviiuus : 
sad Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modera writers. 

Note 43. Stanza Ixxxiii. 

Ob thoo. wbose chariot rulPd on fortune'* wheel, etc. 

Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life 
of Sjlla, alhided to in this stanza, we should regard 
liffl as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. 
The atonement of his vc^untary resignation of empire 
■ay perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have 
atii6ed the Romans, who if they had not respected 
mat have destroyed him. There could be no mean, no 
Araioo of opinion ; they must have all thought, like 
Eaerates, that what had appeared ambition was a love 
tf |iofy, and what had been mistaken for pride was a 
nil grandeur of soul.* 

Note 44. Stanza Ixxzvi. 
Aad laid him with the earth's precsdinf daj. 

Ob die third of Septonber, Cromwell gained the vic- 
(■7 ef Dunbar; a year afterwards he obtained ''his 
oovning mercy" of Worcester ; and a few years aAer, 
SB &e same day, which he had ever esteemed the most 
ftitaiBte for him, dUed. 

Note 45. Stanza luxviL 

And thoe. dread statue ! itill exUtpnl in 
The auiterett form of oakod majeiiiy. 

The projected division of the Spada Pumpey has 

ikeadj been recorded by the historian of tbe Decline 

ladFsll of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it 

■ tbe memorials of Flaminius Vacca,* and it may be 

•Ued to las mention of it that Pope Julius III. gave 

iIn contending owners five hundred crowns fur the 

mtae; and presemed it to Cardinal Capo di Fcrro, 

■ito had prevoitod the judgment of Solomon from 

beiig executed upon the image. In a more civilized 

■|c this statue was exposed to an actual operation : for 

die French, w ho acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the 

CoGseam, resolved that their Caesar should fall at the 

hne of tlot t'ompey, which was 8up]KMed to have been 

ipfinUed with the blood of the original dictator. The 

■iae foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of 

iht ao^ihitheatre, and to facilitate its transport, su& 

fistd the temporary amputation of its right arm. The 

iqnbiican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a 

mtoration : but their accusers do not believe that the 

iM^liinty of the statue would have protected it. The 

1 "S^iMfnr, Tous chanaez, toates mei id6oa de la facon 
^ J« TOW roif a^ir. Je crojraii que vo<u avics de rnmbi- 
tMa Boui aucun amour pour la ^Unn : je vorais bien que 
*<«titBt Hail haute; saais je ne suup^nnais pas qv'ello 

SMenjuria num. Ivii. pag. 0. ap. iMuntt'aucon, Diarium 
Itikw ' 



bve of finding every cmncidence has discovered 
true Ca^arcan ichor in a stain near the right kn< 
but colder criticism has rejected not only the bh 
but the portrait, and assigned the globe of power rati 
to the tir»t of the emperors than to the last of 
republican musters of Rome. Winkelmann ' is 1 
to allow a heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but 
Grimaiii Agrippa, a contemporary almost, is heroic ; i 
naked Roman figures were only very rare, not ab 
lutely forbidden. The face accords much better h 
the " hominem integrum ct cantum et gravtm,'*^ * tl 
with any of the busts of Augustus, and is too stem 
him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, at all peri< 
of his life. The pretended likeness to Alexander i 
Great cannot be discerned, but the traits resemble i 
medal of Pompey.' The objectionable globe may i 
have been an ill-applied flattery to him who fou 
Asia Minor the boundary, and left it the centre of 1 
Roman empire. It seems that Winkelmann has me 
a mistake in thinking that no proof of the identity 
this statue, with that which received the bloody sac 
fice, can be derived from the 8|K)t where it was disc< 
ered.* Flaminius V'acca says $otto una cantinoy a 
this cantina is known to liave been in the Vicolo 
Leutari near the Canccllaria, a position correspond! 
exactly to that of the Janus before the builica 
Pompey^s theatre, to which Augu^itus transferred I 
statue after the curia was either burnt or taken dowi 
Port of the Pompf.'ian shade,^ the portico, existed 
the beginning of the XVth century, and the atr\\ 
was still called Satrum, So says Blondus.' At 
events, so imposing is the stem majesty of the stati 
and so memorable is the story, that the play of t 
imagination leaves no room for the exercise of i 
judgment, and tlie fiction, if a fiction it is, operal 
on the spectator with an effect not less powerful th 
truth. 

Note 46. Stanza Ixxxviii. 
And thou, the thunder-strickoo oune of Ro.-no ! 
Ancient Rome, like modem Sienna, abounded m< 
[irolKibly with images of the foster-mother of h 
founder; but there were two she-wolves of whc 
history makes particular nientitm. One of these, 
brasn in ancient workf was seen by Dionysius ' at t 
temple of Romulus under the Palatine, and is ui 
versally believed to be that mentioned by the Lai 
historian, as having been made from the money c< 
Icctcd by a fine on usurers, and as standing under t 
Ruinin:il fig-tree.' The other was that which Cicero 
has ct.'lebrated both in prose and verse, and which t 

1 Sroria ili'lle arti, etc., lib. ix. cap. i. p. 331, 32!. torn, ii 
*1 CiCijr. KpiBt. u-1 Aiticum. xi. 6. 

3 I*ul>liiihc(i by Caucus in his Museum Romaiium. 

4 istoria dcllu arti, etc.. ibid. 

5 Hueton. in vit. August, nap. 31. and in vit. C. J. C(r>i< 
cap. b8. Appian saFR it was burnt down. iSoe a noto of F 
isciM to 8u«t4iniu)i. pag. 2'24. 

G " Tu modo Pompeia lunta spatiare nub umbra." 

Void .ir. Jiinan. 
7 Roma instaurata, lib. iL fol. 31. 
B Xd\Kta noifiitaTa iraXa<a( ipyavlai. Antiq. Rom. /ib 

9 " Ad ficum Ruminalem Mtnulacra infantium conditoii 
urbis nub uberiliui lupu) ptisuerunt." Liv. Hi«L lib. x v, 
lux. Thin was in the year U. C. 4M, or 457. 

10 " Tuin ftatua Natta>, torn limulacra Dconun. Romuh 
quo ft T^efuw '•mn nitric Iwllua vi Ailminiiiiriiconridtfrunl 
r>e Divm.u. ii.'J). •"lacturf wl iH'! eiiuin (|ui f.anc url« 
conJidii KoiiiuJuj*, «iuciu inuuralum ro t'ut>.\i>\.»i uaiv 



124 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



historian Dion also records as having suffered the same 
accident as is alluded to by the orator. ' The question 
agitated by the antiquaries is, whether the wolf now 
in the conservator's palace in that of Livy and Dio- 
njrsius, or that of Cicero, or whether it is neither 
one nor the other. The earlier writen difler as much 
as the modems : Lucius Fauivus ^ says, that it is the one 
alluded to by both, which is impossible, and also by 
Virgil, which may be. Fulvius Ursinus ' calls it the 
wolf of Dionysius, and Marlianus ^ talks of it as the 
one mentioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius (rem- 
Ningly assents.* Nardini is inclined to suppose it may 
be one of the many wolves preserved in ancient Rome ; 
but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian statue,* 
Montfaucon' mentions it as a point without doubt. 
Of the later writers the decisive Winkelmann* pro- 
claims it as having been found at the church of Saint 
Theodore, where, or near where, was the temple of 
Romulus, and consequently makes it the wolf of 
Dionysius. His authority is Lucius Faimus, who, how- 
ever, only says that it was placed not found, at the 
Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, by which he does 
not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theodore. 
Rycquius was the first to make the mi&take, and 
Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 
Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says 



atque lactantem. uboribus lupinis inbiantem fuisae meminit- 

OB.*' In Catilin. iii. 8. 

" Hie Bjrlvestrifl crat Romani nomlnii altrix 
Mnrtin, que parviM Mavortia Hemiiie irntuii 
IJbrribus pravidiB vitali rore rigabnt, 
Q.u8» turn cuiD pucris flammnto f ulminis irtii 
Coiicidit, atqiicavuliut poduin vratiiria liquit." 
De CoiMulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. ii.) 

* 'Ev yaji riJJ KairTiro)\l(^ ay^ptdvTfs ri iroWol hnb 
Ktpavvuiv ffvvtx*^vcvOri<TaVt xai nyaXptara aXXa r«, 
teal Aid; i^i xlovoi l^pvftivou, lUutv ri tis XoKalvtji 
wiviTC r«J» Pui/<i^ Kai avv ri Viintv\uf iipx'fiivfj Intari. 
Dion. IIiBt. lib. xxxvii. png. 7^. edit. Rub. 8(rph. 1548. lie 
loot on to mention that tho letters of the coluninM on which 
the lawB were written wore liquefied and become iuvipri* 
All that tho Romans did waitoerort n larecfstatno to Jupiter, 
looking towards the east: no mentitm in alliTwardit mat\v of 
tbo wolf. Ttiis happened in A. IT. C. Wi). Tho Al<ate Fea, 
in noticing this paMaee of Dion. (Storia drllo arti, etc., torn. 
i. p. 2D2. note x.) sars, .Von ontantf, atisiunee Dione, rhe 
fosse ben-Jermata (the woll). bv whirh it is clear tho Abate 
transialed the Xylandro-I/euclaviao vcnion. whirh puts 
qnamvis stabilita for tho original Upvfiivijf a word (hat does 
not mean ben-fermata. but only raised, as may be distinctly 
■e«D from another panaice of tho same Dion: ilBooXfidrj 

eht ovv 6 kyp(iTiras xai rdv AiyovaTov ivravOa I6p(>cat. 
list. lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agripoa " wished to raise a 
statue of AuKUstus in the Pantheon. 

2 " In eadem porticu leiiea lupa, cujus ubprihus Romulus ac 
Remufi lactnntes inhiant. conspicitur: dH hac Cicero et 
Viricihus semper intellcxore. Livius hoc sixnum ab .l-'dilibtii 
ex poruniiit quihus mulctati ei«unt rtpneratoreit. positum in- 
nuit. .Antea in Comitiisad Ficum Riiminalum. quo loco pueri 
t'ucrboi expoiiiti hirntum pro rerto hkI.'" Luc. Fauni, de 
Antiii. Urb. Rtim. lib. ii. cap. vii. »p. Snllcn;:rr, torn. i. p. 
217. In his XVI 1th chapter he rep4*atH that the statues were 
there, but not that tiiey were found there. 

3 A p. Nurdini. Roma Vetus, lib. t. cap. iv. 

4 Marliani, Urb. Rom. topncraph. lib. ii. cno. ix. Hemmi- 
tions anotbtr wolf and twins in the Vatican, lib. v. cap. xxi. 

5 " Non desunt qui hnnc ipsaro tmM putcnt, <iuam adpinxi- 
iniu, quie e rnmitio in Riuilicam Liiteranam, cum nonnullis 
aliM auiiquituium reliciniis. utque hinc in Ciipiiolium po9>tea 
relata sit. (pminvis Marlianus antiquani Capitcilinam ciwc 
maluit a Tnllio descriptam. cui ut in re nimis diihia. trepide 
aancniimor." Just. Ryc«iuii de Cnpit. Roman. Comm. cap. 
xxtv. par. ^*). (Hilt. Lucd. Rat. ISSIC. 

fl Nardini Roma Vetus. lib. ▼. cap. iv. 

7 " Lupi ho.]ieqne in capitolims prostat o^dibas, cum vet- 
tiffio riiliiiMiiH quo ictamnarrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn. 
I. p. 171. 

8 ptiiria I'.i'llo arti, Ci..., Ilh. iii. cai.. iii. <» ii. note TO. Win- 
Kel/nann h:i< innde n stranire blunder in the note, by saying 
iie Ciceronian woir was not in tho Capitol, rid that Dioo 

wronc in sajrini so. 



he had heard the wolf with the twins was found * 
the arch of Septimius Severus. The commentator ua 
Winkeknann is of the same opinion with that learned 
person, apd is incensed at Nardini for not having re- 
marked . that Cicero, Id speaking of the wolf stnidt 
with Ughtmiig in the Capitol, makes use of the ptit 
tense. But, with the Abaters leave, Nardini does dqI 
positively asisert the statue to be that mentioned bv 
Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would not per> 
haps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abile 
himself is obliged to own that there are marks nrf 
like the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of ifat 
present wolf! and, to get rid of this, adds, that the mtf 
seen by Dionysius might have beon also struck bj hf^ 
ning, or otherwise injin^. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to thi 
words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems is 
particularize the Romulus and the Remus, especallf 
the first, which his audience remembered to ham him 
in the Capitol, as being struck with lightning. In hii 
verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, iid 
that the latter left behind the marks of her feet. Ciecn 
does not say that the wolf was consumed : and Dim 
only mentions that it fell down, without aDuHing, li 
the Abate has made him, to the force of the blow, « 
the firmness with which it had been fixed. 'Die whok 
strength, therefore, of the Abate*s argtunent, hasp 
upon the past tense ; which, however, may be saB» 
what diminished by remariung that the phrase onif 
shows that the statue was not then standing in iti 
former position. Winkeknann has observed, that tbi 
present twins are modem ; and it is equally clear tbst 
there are marks of gilding on the woU^ which mi^ 
therefore be supposed to make part of the ancieal 
group. It is known that the sacred images of the Cs|S- 
tol were not destroyed when injured by time or acddeal, 
but were put into certain imderground deposiiotkf 
called faviaaa,* It may be thought possible that tte 
wolf had been so deposited, and had been replaced it 
some coaspicuous situation when the Capitol was re- 
built by Vespasian. Rycquius, without menticming Iv 
authority, tells that it was transferred from the Coini> 
titmito the Lateran, and thence brought to the CapitoL 
If it was found near the arch of Severus, it may havs 
been one of the images which Orosius ' says was thrown 
down in the Forum by lightning when Alaric took lbs 
city. That it is of very high anUquity the workman- 
ship is a decisive proof; and that circumstance induced 
Winkelmann to believe it the wolf of Dionysius. "Rie 
Capitoline wolf^ however, may have been of the same 
early date as that at the temple of Romulus. Lactan- 
tius * asserts that, in his time, the Romans worshipped a 
wolf; and it is known that the Lupercalia held out is 



1 " Intern dire. ch« TErcole di bronxo. che ngti si trovai 

sala del Campidoglio, fu trovato nel foro Romano appi 

Parco di Seitimio : e vi fu trovaia ancbe la lupa dt limnso ekt 
allatta Romolo e Remo. estk nella Loggia de conservatori." 
Flam. Vacca. Momorie. num. iiL pag. i. ap. Mootfaocoa. 
Diar. Ital, tom. i. 

2 Luc. Faun. ibid. 

3 See note to staoxa LXXX. in Historical lIluatrarioM. 

4 "Romult nutrix Lupa honoribus est afTecta divinis. ct 
ferrem ai animal ipaum fuiaset, cujus firuram gent.** Lae- 
tant. dn fal^a religione. Lib. i. cap. 90. pag. 101. edit vaiio* 
lOGO; that is to say, he would rather adore a wolf than » 
prostitute. His commentator has observed, that the oninior 
of Livy concerning Laurentia being fisured in this wolf was 
not nmversal. Strabo thought so. Kycquiua b wrong io say- 
inc that Lsctsntius mentions the wolf wss in tiw GspnoL 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



V. 



a vrnr Ute period ' after every other d»crvance of Uie 
aacient tuporstJiioa had totally expired. Thia ina>' ac- 
onmi (or the preaemUJon of the ancient image longer 
than the other early sTmboli of paganism. 

It may be pcrmitlcd, however, to remark that the 
woX nu a Roman nymbd, but that the wonthip of 
that symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lac- 
tuuuf. The early Christian writen arc not to bo 
truned in the charges which they make againit the 
pagans. EuseUus accused the Romans to their faces 
of vor»hipping Simon Magus, and raising a statue to 
him m the island of the Tyfaer. The Romans Jiad prob- 
abljr Bever heard of such a person before, who came, 
kowTTer, lo pby a considerable, though scandalous port 
in the church ni<j4orr, and has left several tokens of his 
ahaloimbai with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding 
that an inscription found in this very island of the 
Tjbcr slMwed the Simon Magus of Euscbiiis to be a 
certain indigenal god, called Semo Sangus or Fidius.' 
Eren when the worship of the founder of Rome haiJ 
been abaikloncil, it was thought exi>edicnt to hunnjur 
the habits of the good matrons of the city by iMMKlinp 
then wuh their sick infants to the church of St. Theo- 
dore, at ihey had before carried them to the temple of 
Bonulua.^ The practice is continued to this day ; and 
the nie of the above church seems to be thereby iden- 
tiaed wirh that of the temple : so that if the wolf had 
been really fiiund there, as Winkelmann says, there 
would be DO doubt of the present statue bein*; that 
seen by Dionysiu!*.* But Faunus, in saying that it was 
V the Ficus Ruminahs by the Comitium, is only talking 
of its ancient ])o#iiion as recorded by Pliny ; and even 
■f he had been remarking where it was found, would 
Bol ha? e alliMicd to the church of St. Theodore, but to 
a Terr dilfemit place, near which it was then thnu>!lit 
te Ficus Runiiiialis had been, and also the Comitium ; 
that is, the three columns by the church of Santa Maria 
Liberatrice, at the comer of the Palatine kxAing on 
th^Fontna. 

Ii is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was 
ictuaDy dug up,* and perhaps, on the whole, the marks 

ITo A. D. 4(M. "Quis rmlere posidt,*' fnyi BamniiH. 
(An. Fcr*.**. lom. viii. pi\%. 002. in an. 496.) " vieiii^io ndhiif 
ftoBS tA fsflMii lempom. nuv fiiero anta rxDnitn itriiiii hI- 
iitaui lialiain Lupcrcalin? ' (Solaaiud wrotn a l«*ttrr wliirli 
vrrttivt lour fulio pnfv* lo AndriimachuH, tho veiialur, aiid 
•Ikm, to tituw thnt the ritos should be livrn up. 

^i&itehiui has thoM wnrdi: icni Av^ptdvrt vapi^ Ifitv us 
cdi rrn/iirraii ir T^? TfJrpi ftorafi^ /irra(u tQv <Uo ytt^ 
tfitj l^w irtYi>a^*Jv Pw/iair^r ruirfiv, TLtfitari iitf 
^'ynV* Erclfif. llirf. hb. ii. cop. liii. p. 40. Justin Martyr 
^ lokl the st^irr ^lernrc ; but Baronius hiitiMlf Wdi oUipfd 
hdtttiri ihli fslJe. Spo Nardini Roma Vet. lib. rii. rap. zii. 

.3 " In pMa Kli nntirhi pnnli'firi per toslier In momnria iW 
mrhi Liiiperrali istitiiiti in fimirv di RonMiln, intriMluiwrd I' 
Vkidipiirtarvi R.-iniliini f>ppiP4iu da inrormilJl orculto. nrriu 
■iibmrio prr rintfr<VMioii« di qiK^nto Santo, rumi* ili roii- 
^»> »i »pi>rini«-ni.-k." Riiiiii* xii Kipa. nrrumia c Kiifrinia 
*£riiiMir. etc.. di Roma Moderoa ddl' Ab. Ridulf. Vuuuti, 

4 Xardmi, lib. t. cap. ii. convicts romponiu* T<aMiiii rri^n 
S*wi«. in piiltmx tlu* Rumiual fiK*trec atthorhnr'-h nr'Smnt 
TWmW bui u« Livjr Mys lh«f wolf was atthi* PiruH iCiimi- 
Bih. ami niiMir'iiM n' tlvp tfmple of Rnmnliia. hi> w olilivi'd 
(ii. iv.r to own thnt ih«> two were rlone IftrfifKMr. ari wvtl a* 
■eUupneal eavf , ^odeil. aa it were, by the fi«-tre«. 

J " All rnmifiuin fi^us olim Raminalis rerminalmt. aub qua 
damnum. h«K* CKt. iiiammam, doceote Varnme, Mkcrnnt 
«■ Rnmulii'i «t Ri-uiu»: n«n prorul a tempio Inidii' I). 
■*n» bb«ra«rici« apn^itatii, ubi foracu invonta nubdia dia 
**a Mstsa lupe f enuoos puenikM laetaotii. quam liudio in 



ui the gildiii<!, and of tlie lightning, are a bi'ttr-r arj 
nient in favour of its iM'ing the Ciceronian wolf lli 
any th:it cuii W- arlilurcd fi»r tlu> ronlniry opininn. 
any rat«>, it \< rcasminbly aclertud in the l<'xt of I 
povm as one of the most intcrcrttino relics of the ancit 
rily,' Olio is rirrtainly the figure, if not the very aniii 
to wmch Virgil uUudi's in his iH'iuitiful veriMss : 

" (M'niiii'in hnic iibora rirrum 
I.iidtTf iirnilcnfi'* piiinni el liimborn matniiu 
Iiiiimt iilijN : ilhiiii ii fi'ti ri>rviri> rpth xiim 
Mulcurv altcrihM, vl tinct'TL- corpora linffua."^ 

Note 47. Stanza xc 



-for tlte Roman's mind 



Wan iniKlolI'd in a luiw tfrrualrial luuukl. 

It is postilile to be a very j;rfiat man, and lo be a 
very infi.rinr t(i Juliuii Cii'sar, tlic most c<Hii|i!uto chi 
acter, so ]..i>rd Hacun th'Huiht, of all anlii|iii(y. Nati 
seems incapable of such u\traurilin.ir>' coiiiliinations 
corn[io5od his vcr^atilo capacity, which was tlio wom 
even of the Romans th«Miisi'lvi's. Tho tir.^t general 
iIm* only triuini)haiit |H>!itiriaii — iiifLTiur to none 
clcK|Ufnct! — cnniparable to any in the attainments 
wijuloiii, ill an agi^ niaMc uji «>f ihu }<rcatt'«t roiuiiiaiulo 
iilatesuu-.n, orators, aiMl plulosnplicrN, that ever ap|H:ai 
in the world — an author wlu> corn|KM(;d a prrlrrt spc 
men of iiiilitary annals in his lravellin/-farriagc— 
one time in a controversy with Cato, at aiuitlicr writ! 
a trnaliM' on piiiuiin<;« and collecting a set of <;rioil sn 
in^s — li;;htini! ^ and makiii*; love at the frame nuMnc 
and willing to ahaiulon both his empire oini hi« m 
tress for a siiiht uf ilio fmntaiiis of tlif> Niif. Sii 
did Julius Cii'sar aii|)car to his rotitem|inrarifH, and 
those of the 8iili.'«er|Ubiit n<;f!s, who were the iimmI : 
cliiied to deplore aii<l execrate his tatnl genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his si 
{lassiiii; f;l>>ry or with his niagnaniinous, his aniial 
r{iialiii«:s, as to forget the decision of his imparl 
coinilrymen : 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.^ 



Capitolio videmiw." Olai Rtirrirhii nntiqua Vrbir Rcmin 
furi'it. rnp. x. See nWi cuii. xii. litirrn'tiiuii wmti* iitli>r >i 
dini in Wri. Ap. Grarv. Antu|. Rum. turn. iv. p. l.VJ".!. 

1 Ilonntiiii, lili. xi. rnp. H, civr* a nii>dal n-pri>Miiiinf 
on» *u\v ilii> wiiir in the inijiir iKi^itmn hh Itint in liic (' ipii 
nnd in iIm* rfvt'r>c tho uult'wiih (hu hrad nul iL-\i'[U-d. 1 
of tho time uf Aiituniniiii V\\i*, 

*2 ^1-jwid, riii. tm. Sim; Dr. Middltlon. in hi« I<i>ii^r fr 
RiMiM*. who nii'l,in<>«t to tlie CVoronian wuH', hut wiUioui i 
ainnunir the nuUitini. 

3 In hiH tpnih honk, Lnrnn «how< him upriiiklf'd with i 
bkiod uf PhHr^Hliu in iht* arm* of Ciitipnira: 

" Sniisiiino Thi>iiniira' cliidi>« (N-rliii>U4 ad ii Iter 
AdniKit VrntTfiii rurii*. i-t ini^ruit ariinii.** 

Af\er li'a<(iii« with hi« ini«tri>«ii, h<- ^iIf up nil iiisht to ci 
vcrae with tli<> ^l^irypiinn ftai!e«. and ti-.U Achnr<;nM 

"HlK-ii !*it indii %'ix\i\ vidi*ndi 
Niliiiroit t«>iitH4. iN-lhim rjvili: ndinipinni:" 
"r<ir vi'lut in luta M'''iiri pace traJicbant 
Nix'tii* iirr nu-dinm." 

ImiiH^dintfU' aftcrwarda, hi> ia Hichtinx afain and dt^fi-nd: 
cvvri' ptjriiiiuii : 

" t>t>d adrrt drf«>niHir uhique 
(\Tiiar, et ho* oditun jehiiUm, Im* iicnibn* arn-L 

t'B-f'ii mn'ii" rarinw 

Inkdiiit ( 'iiitar M*miHT ri-linti'r umis ,, 

l'r»-<'ipiL rnriiu IH-Ilnriiin «-t triiipnn* niptu. 

4 " Jnn» rii-..iiB •■xipiirMi'lnr.'" niT« Su«'li»iiiiH. iiflcr a J 
ruiiniiitinii of hilt rluirri«'UT. nnd makin^r u«' of ^ pl-riH' wh 
wuM :i forui'ilri in I.ivy V linio. " M.liinn jiirr rii-iirn i)roni 
fiavii. i-fiani A ri-ani «'riniiiii; ipmih* tinTit." (lib- '* ■ '""P- h 
and whirh waH iMnnnuid in thi' l-tfnl jii.l:'nii"iHn pr« iH'iim 
in jiHlifi.ilil** hdmiri.lfii. mirh a- kdlniK himwhrffiki m. 1 
tfuiton. ui viL U. J. Ca-.arui. wiUi Uia ciimwenUify ul I I'lac 
p. Itil 



126 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



<c 



Note 48. Stanza xciii. 

What from thii barren beins do we reap t 
Our seMee narrow, and our reason trail 

. . Omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, 

nihil percipi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos sensiis ; 

hnbecilles animos, brevia curricula vit«e; in profundo 

veritatem demersam; opinionibus et institutis omnia 

teneri ; nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps omnia tenebria 

circumftwa esse dixeninU*** The eighteen hundred 

years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this have 

not removed any of the imperfections of humamty: 

and the complaints of the ancient philosophers may, 

without injustice or affectation, be transcribed in a 

poem written yesterday. 

Note 49. Stanza xcix. 
There is a stem round tower of other days. 
Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia MetcUa, called Capo 
di Bove, in the Appian Way. See Historical Illustra- 
tions of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 

Note 50. Stanza cii. 

rophetic of the doom 



Ueaven f ivos its ravoorites — early death. 

Ov ot Scoi ipiXoTitrtVf ivo6vil}aKtt vlo^, 

Td yelp ^aviiv ohx ala^^Vy AW* a\v)(jt(ii ^avtiv* 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poets Gnomid, p. 
231. edit. 1784. 

Note 51. Stanza cvii. 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 
The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on Ae 
tide towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is 
formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing has been 
told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but 
a Roman antiquary. — See Historical Illustrations, page 
206. 

Note 52. Stanza cviii. 

There is the moral of all human tales ; 
*T is but the same nihearsal of the past. 
First fieedom, and then fflury, etc. 

The author of the life of Cicero, speaking of the 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his 
cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- 
sage : '* From their railleries d* this kind, on the bar- 
barity and misery of our island, one cannot help re- 
flecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of king- 
doms, how Rome, once the mistress of the world, the 
seat of arts, empire, and glory, now lies sunk in doth, 
ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as 
well as to the most coritemptible of tyrants, sup««tition, 
and reli<;ious imposture: while this remote country, 
anciently the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, 
is becon>e the happy scat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; 
flotirishing in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; 
yet running perhaps the same course which Rome it- 
self had run before it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; 
from wealth to luxury ; from luxury to an impatience 
of discipline, and corruption of morals : till, by a total 
degeneracy and loss of virtue, being grown ripe for 
dosiniction, it fall a prey at last to some hardy o{>preas- 
or, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every thing that 
IS valuable, sinks gradually again into its original bar- 
barisn»"' 



Note 53. Stanxacx. 



-and apostofie atanies cfinb 



1 Academ. I. 13 

< The Hietory of the Life of M. Ttilliua Cicero, sect. vi. 
HiL li. paf . i02 The contrast has been reversed ia a laio 
MFtraoidioarjr instanca. A gsnileman was thrown into prisou 



To crush the imperial ura, whose ashes slept safaGaa. 
The column of Trajan is mmnounted by 8l P«tar, 
thatofAureUusbyStPiuL See Historical RhMtyaliDBi 
of the IVth Canto, etc 

Note 54. Stanza ad. 
StiM we Trajan's name adore. 
Trajan was proverhialfy the best of the 
princes : > and it would be easier to find a 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than 
possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to 4li 
emperor. '* When he mounted the throne,*' says lh» 
historian Dion,' ** he was strong in body, he was ri|ii^ 
ous in mind ; age had impaired none of his facultieif 
he was altogether free from envy and from detradioa; 
he honoured all the good and he advanced them ; apl • 
on this account they could not be the objects of ids Av 
or of his hate ; he never listened to informers ; he pm 
not way to his anger ; he abstained equally from mfiar 
exactions and unjust punishments; he had rather bi 
loved as a man than honoured as a sovereign ; he HM 
affable with his people, respectful to the senate, ad 
universally beloved by both; he inspired none wik 
dread but the enemies of his country.*' 

Note 55. Stanza cxiv. 
Ricnzi, last of Romans ! 
The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar b 
the reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited 
uscripts, relative to this unhappy hero, will be 
the Illustrations of the IVth Canto. 

Note bC^, Stanza cxv. 

Ereria ! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-plaee so fur 
As thine kteal breast 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vaocawnril 

incline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian groWk' 

He assures us that he saw an inscriptioD on the paf^ 

ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeria< 



at Paris , efforts were made for his release. The French i 
ister continued to detain him, under the pretext that he 
not en Eoffliahmen. but only a Reman. Geo " Inlerestinff I 
rdatinc to Joachim Murat," pag. 139. 

1 " Rojua tantum merooriB delatum est, at. nsqne ad mt 
tram aptatem non aliter in Seoatu principibos acdaaaWt 
nisi. FELICIOR. AVGV8TO. MELIOR. TRAJANO." 
Eutrop. Brpv. Hist. Rom. lib. viiL cap. v. 

' Ti^ Tc Y^p ctaitari £/i^(sro. koi r^ ^'^Xi ^'V''^^ 

its fti^* li:6 yfjpiai JifiS^vvtaOat xat ofrr* l^ BiW t 

olrt KaO^pci rivttf dXXd Kal irdw vdrras nt^t iyoMff 
hriftif Kai Ipeya'Xvvi* Kai itti roBro oirt i^oSciri nsf 

ahrCiVf oirs ifihct StaSaXals re lyciara inrnl% 

Kol 6pYfi ^Kiffra l(5oi'Xotfro. rQv rt ;^/»7/iarwr rwv iXXo 

rp(wv loa Kai ^<Svuv riiv iiUutiv aftixtro i^iXs^ 

v6i re oZv ir alrols /loXXoy tj rt^^iuvoi l^'ips* nal r^ 
re i^^^ fitr* hicixuai wvcytvevo, xai r^ yijpwvtf tif 
voTrpcirwf u/tAri* iyaxtjrbi fth vSn' ipoStp6s ii /<9^fvi^ 
rXi|y iroXcfii'otf uiy. Hist. Rom. lib. Ixviii. cap. it. vii. to*, 
ii. p. 1133, n». edit. Hamb. 1750. 

3 ** Pooo lontano dal dntto luoito si scende ad un easalettow 
del quale ne sonu Padroni K Cafarelli, che oon qoesto dobbs 
e chiamaio il luifto; vi 6 una fontana sotto aaa rran vohs 
antica, che al preaente si sock>. e li Romani vi vannn Pestals 
a ncrearai ; nel pavimentodi essa fonte si lef fe in ua epitaffls 
essere quells la fonte di Egeria, dedicata alle ninfe, e qoesla 
dice IVpitafflo, essere la medesima fonte in eui fu convertila.** 
Memorie, etc. ap. Nardioi, pag. 13. He does not give the 
desotiptioa. 



CUILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



127 



1 to the nvrnphs. Tlw inacripcioo is not there at 
day ; but Montfkaoon quotes two fines > of Orid 
I a stooe in the YiOm Giustinani, which he seems 
link had been broughi from the same grotto. 
his grotto and TmOey were Ibrroerly frequented in 
aner, and particularly the first Sunday in May, by 
modera Romans, who attached a sahdmous quality 
he fountain wh^ triddes from an orifice at the 
em of the Tanlt, and, overflowing the little pools, 
B|is down the matted grass into the brook bckiw. 
e brook is the Oindian Almo, whose name and quali- 
I are lost in the modem Aquataccio. The Valley 
If is cafied VaUe di CafTarelli, from the dukes of 
t name, who made over their fountain to the Palla- 
m, with sixty nUMa of adjoining land. 
IlKTe can be little doubt, that this hmg dell is the 
,<cfian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
ihicius, notwithstand'uii; the generality of his coro- 
atalors have supposed the descent of the satirist and 
frShd to have been into the Arician grove, where 
i Bjmph met Hippoliuis, and where she was more 
Doliuiy worshipped. 

The »tep from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, 
ten miles distant, would be too considerable, unless 
t were to bebeve in the wild conjecture of Vossius, 
10 makes that gate travd from its present station, 
lere he pretends it was during the reign of the Kings, 
fu as the Arican grove, and then makes it recede 
its old site with the shrinking city. * The tufo, or 
isice, which the poet prefers to marble, is the sub- 
ince composing the bank in which the grotto is sunk. 
The modern topographers' find in the grotto the 
Uoe of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, and 
bte traveller * has discovered that the cave is restored 
that ainipUcity which the poet regretted had been 
xhanieed for injudicious ornament. But the headless 
uue » palpably rather a male than a nymph, and has 
ns uf the attributes ascribed - it at present visible, 
be nine Muses could hardly ha\ iod in six niches ; 
id Juvenal certaiiriy does not allude to any individual 
ive. ^ Notliing can be collected from the satirist but 
at fonewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in 
hich h was supposed Numa held nightly consultations 
ih hb nymph, and where there was a grove and a 
lered fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the 
Iwes ; and that from this spot there was a descent into 



1 "h rilk JtMliuiaaa extat infem Upia quadr&tui loiidiu 
ifsovculpta hae duo Ovidii carmina vunt 

iCfferia Mt qam pnsbet aquai dea crata Camanis. 
Ilia Nurna eoitjux coosiliumque (bit. 
W hpn Tidetur ex eodem Eceriv foota, ant «uaa vicuia 
teeeonportatiM.'* Diariam Italic p. \SX 
I Us naffiiil. Vat. Boca. ap. Grwv. Ant. Rom. torn. iv. p. 
117. 

3 EririDani. Daacnxione di Roma o dell* afro Roioaoo cor- 
MtdaU' Abaia Veeuti in Roma. 17S0. Thcjr bsliave in the 
Mtoaad avmph. "Sioiulacra di qaaato foote, oaaendovi 
nripiiA Id acque a pie di eMO.** 

4 ChMienl Tuur. ehap. vi. p. 317. vol. ii. 

5 "Suhtbtjt ad vocerea arcua. madidnmque Capenam, 

Hie ubi Dortomas Numa eon^titueba t amic», 
Nuoe sarri fijntia oemu*, et delubra loeanlur 
Jodati qaorum cophinum fflonuinquf mipellex. 
Omnia coim popalo inercedera iiendprn juaaa est 
Artwr. ct rirctia meodicat nlva Camania. 
In vaBen Efsriw deaeendimua. et apeluneas 
DJBiimiUs veris : quanlo pnntantiiM eaet 
Numan aqua, viridi ai marfineciauderet nndaa 
Usrfaa qoc incennum viulaienl maraiora tophum.** 

Bauia 



the valley of Egeria, where were several artificial caves. 
It is clear that the statues of the Muses made no part 
of the decoration which the satirist thought misplaced 
in these caves ; for he expressly assigns other fanes 
(delubra) to these divinities above the valley, and more- 
over tells us, that they had been ejected to inake room 
for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called that 
of Bacchus, was formerly thought to bdong to the 
Muses, and Nardini * places them in a poplar grove, 
which was in hia time above the valley. 

It u probable, from the inscription and position, that 
the cave now shown may be one of the *' artificial cav^ 
ems," of which, indeed, there is another a little way 
higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but 
a nngle grotto of Egeria is a mere modem inventioo, 
grafted upon the application of the epithet Egerian to 
these nymphea in general, and which might send us 
to look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks of the 
Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistrans- 
lation by his acquaintance with Pope : he carefully pre- 
serves the correct plural — 

" Thenre slowlir wiodinc down the vale, we vmw 
The Kcerian grota ; oh. now unbke the tnie !*' 

The valley abounds with springs, * and over these 
springs, which the Muses might haunt from their neigh- 
bouring groves, Egeria presided : hence she was said 
to supply them with water ; and she was the njrmph of 
the grottos through which the fountains were taught to 
flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the 
Egerian valley have received names at will, which have 
been changed at will. Venuti ' owns he can see no 
traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, 
and Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The 
mutatorium ofCaracalla^s circus, the temple of Hoiwur 
and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the 
temple of the god of Rediculus, are the antiquaries* 
despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal <^ that 
emperor cited by Fulvius UrMinus, of which the reverse 
shows a circus, sup{>ot»C(l, however, by some to repr^ 
sent the Circus Maximus. It gives a very good idea of 
that place of exercise. The soil h.is been but little 
raised, if wo may judge from the 8ma4l cellular structuro 
at the end of the Spina, which was probably the chapel 
of the god Consus. This cell is hall bereith the soil, 
as it must have been in th circus itselt, £y Dionysius* 
could not be fiersuaded U bcUcve that this divinity was 
the Roman Neptune, because his aliar was undei 
ground. 

Note 57. Stanxa cxxviL 
Y«l Ivl iM iionder boldly. 

" At all events," says the author of the Aradomica* 
Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the fate of my 
own speculations, that philosophy will regain that esti' 
malion which it ought to possess^ The free and phi- 
losophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of ad- 
miration to the world. This was the proud distinction 
of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all their 
glory. Shall we llien forget the manly and dignified 

1 Lib, iii. cap. iJi. 

2 " Uodique e aolo aqu* gcaturiunL" Nardnil. hb. hi. 

iii. 
.•» Bchinanl, etc. Cic. cit. pp. 997, 298. 
4 Antki. Horn. lib. iL cap. 



.128 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



■cntimcntfl of our ancestors, to prate in the language of 
the inotiicr or the niinic about oiir good old prejtMiicc« 7 
This u not the w:iy to dofi-inl tin- cause of truth. It 
waif not llius tliat our fatlu.TH maintained it in the bril- 
hont |M>rio<lH of our histury. Prejudice may l>e truKte/| 
10 guard the outvvorkii f(>r a short space of tinie, while 
reason HluniU'r.i in the citadel : Uit if the latter sink 
into a letliarfiy, the former will (juickly erect a standard 
for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, ami liberty, support 
each other ; he who will not reason, b a bigot ; he who 
cannot, ts a fool ; and he who dares not, is a slare." 
Preface, p. xiv. xv. vol. i. 1805. 

Note 58. Stanza cxxxii. 



Hi'Ti', wii<T«! the niK'ii'til paid ihi-t! hoiiiurc Ion;. 
We read, m Su(>t(iniii^, that AuniiKtus, from a warn- 
ing receive<l in a dream, ' counirrfi.-itcd (inci* a-v<*arthe 
Deggar, sitting bi'fort* the ^ate of his pulace, \%ith hix 
hand hollowL'd, and Rtn'trh«-d iMit Hir rh.-irity. A statue 
GMinerly in the \'illa Bori^heno, aiiti %ihirh should be 
now at Paris, rejjresents the emperor in that |>it.sliire oi' 
sU|>|)lication. The object of this self-degradation wa« 
(he ap|>easement of Nenu'SH, the iM'rpeiual attentlant 
on gwxl fbrluiie, nf wliose |»owrr the Roman ronquorors 
were also reminded by certain »<ymlK>ls all ached iotlieir 
con* of triumph. The Myml»<))s \%c're the whip and the 
rroitdoj which were ili»«x»ve.P'il in ihe Neinrsi.i of the 
Vatican. I'he attitude «>f lM'^'<_'ary n)a«le the alxne 
statue [lass for that of Helisarius ; anil until (be criti- 
cism of Winkejmann - had reriilied the mistake, one 
fiction was enlleil in to support another. It was the same 
fear of the sudilen termination of |iros|ierity that made 
Ainasis, kins of Ksypt, warn his Iriend Pulycrutes of 
Samos, lh;it the jjckIs loved those wluwe lives wrre 
chripiered with gixnl ami evil fortunes. Nemesis was 
supposed to lie in wait particularly tor the pnident : that 
IS, for those who'^ti caution remlered them accessible 
only to mere accidents ; and her first altar was raised 
on the banks r>f the Phrygian -^Ose|ius by .\drastu8, 
prolraibly the prinrc! of that name, who killed the son of 
C rectus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called 
Adrastea. ' 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and avgrtft ; there 
Wd4 a temple to her in the Palatine, under tlie name of 
Rhamnusia : ^ so great iiuleed was the prnuensity of the 
ancients to trust to the revolufion of event?, and to bc- 
hevc ill the divinity of fortune, that in the same Pala- 
tine there was a temple to the fortune of the day. ^ 
This is the last supirrstition which retains its hold over 
t}ie human heart ; and from concentrating in one ol> 
jcct the cnjdulity so natural to man, has always ap|>eared 
strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles of 

1 Suoton. in vit. AusuKti. <*np. 91. CsHnuUon. in llie nnti>, 
refers to IMiitHrrh'i Livc^i nf (.\tmilUiii anil ^flmiliim l*nuhi!<. 
ami bImi to hi« apophiheffina. for the rhnrnctiT of this iii*ity. 
Tiie hollowiil hand w.-u n><'kon<'d the lunt deirni< nf dniTn- 
dation: nnd wlion iho dead body of the pni-riTi Rufimiii wis 
'•urnc nboiit in triumph liy the imoplc, the indignity was in- 
eronnvi by piittine bin hnnil in thnt piHitiim. 

? i^inriii dclk* iirti, etc., lib. xii. rnp. iii. torn. ii. p. 4:!?. 

ViMiiiirj rnlU the MatiiH, howvvfr. h (.'ylieltf. It i* sivpn in 

•ho MnM'o Pio (?li«mi'nt. loin. i. pur. -lO. The Abate Fi-h 

Spifii;H7ifidi) dt!i Riuni. Sloria. etc., toin. iii. p. 513.) calls it 

a ChrHippiin 

'J Wu-x. di» Kayie, arii<'Ie Adrnstei. 

4 It i« eniimrrrntPil by the reginnary Victor. 

5 " FortuDE hujiMCC diui.'* Cicero mentions her, de legib. 
I*l». IL 



belief. The antiquaries hare auppoied thk foddcato 
be synonymtHJs with fortune and with fate: ' buiitvil 
in her vindictive quality that she was wonfaipped 
the name of Nemesis. 

Note 59. Stanza cxL 
I see iN'ibre mn the cladiaior lie. 
Whether the wonderful statue which sup^eiteA. ^ 
image, be a laquearian gladiator, which ia fpct^ ■ 
Winkclmann's criticism, has been stoutly mimfiiifc^i 
or whether it lie a Greek herald, as that 
|>ositJvely asserted, ^ or whether it is to be 
iS[ianan or barliarian shield-bearer, according 
opiniirii of his Italian editor, ' it must assuredly 
rifpy of that masterpiece of Ctesilaus, which 
sented ** a woimded man dying, who perfecdy 
what there remained of life in him." ' 
ami Maffei' thought it the identical statue; bit 



\ 




statue Wiis of bronze. The ghidiator was once 

j villa Liidovizi, and was liought by Clement XIL 

right arm is an entire rcstoraiioo of Michad 

Note 60. Sunra cxli. 



Ik 
f 



-lie, thsir nre, 



lIuiclH'r'd to make a Runaan miliiiay. 
Glailiators were of two kinds, comfiellcil and^ 
tary ; and were su[iplied from several condilinns; fi* 
slaves 8*jhl fw that pur|KMe; friMn culprits; from i* 
harian captives, eiiher taken in war, and, after bei^ 
led in triumph, set apart for the games, or thoM fed* 
ami cmidcmned as rebels ; also from free ritiicitt,!!'' 
(ighiing for hire {nurtarati), others from a depff*" 
ambition : at last even knijihts and scnatnn were e» 
bibited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant w.ii natuiBf 
the first inventor. ' In the end, dwarfs, and emi v^ 
men, fought ; an enormity prohibited by .Sercni«. Of 
these the most ti) be pitieii, iindmibtedly, w-ere the ll•^ 
harian captives ; and to this species a Chrisli.in writer'* 
justly apidins tbcfspithet "innnrcw/," to distinguish thai 

] \W.\V. .NRMESI 
WVK FORT\'NAE 

PL^roRiva 

RVGIANVS 
V. (\ LEG AT. 
LFJS. xiir. G. 
CORD. 
iflee Queationet Romanir. etc., Ap. Grer. AnAq. BoMB 
torn. T. p. <M*3. See alio Muraiori. Nov. Thenar. ImerilL 
Vet. tom. i. pfi. HH. ^. where there nre three Latm sad hss 
Gn^'k intirription to .\oiiiiH.'i*. and othen to Fati*. 

S lly thi' Abate Itrn'-oi, fliMortnzlone wipra un clipeo-vMi«tb 
etr. Prefari*. pn». 7. who nrrnunis fur iho cord rcmA ifcs 
nn-k. but not t'nr the horn, which it duos nor appear tkr ili' 
diRtcTf tbi>msrlvc» ever lued. Note (A.) Storia ddlc sA 
t(«in. ii. p. ^Jti.*). 

n F.itiMT rol.fonte*. herak] of Ijaiiis. kilkid hf (Kdipes: « 
(Vl»r>'H>i, hiTHld of Fiiritheus, killed by the Aiheniam «Ims 
In- fiidt'R%-iinreil to drniP ihi? Ileraelidro from Ihe altar if 
niercy. nnil in uhiwe honnnr ihey inpiiiufef! annual RaaMk 
roiifinniMt (o the tinif of Hadrian ; or AnlhemooitM. A> 
Alheninn hirsid, killi-d liy the Meffarenscs, who 
fr*H\ the iini>iriy. Hec >?tiirin delle arti, etc., turn. ii. pp. 
'XW. ^*i, iKHi. ^17. lih. ix. cap. ii. 

4 Siorin. fti'., toin. ii. p. 3H7. Not. (A.) 

.% " Vulnerntnin di^fieieiitem feeU in quo posMi i 
quantum ri'Mat animie.** Phn. NaL HisL uxiv. cap.& 

n Antin.tom. iii. par. S. tab. 1SS. 

7 Race. stni. tub. fi4. 

H Mns. Capirol. turn. iii. p. 154. ediL 175S. 

Jtiliuv Cn'hnr, who roM* by the fiiU oTthe arirtorneTi 
brouirht FiiriiiK liepfiniiii nnd A. Cahmua upon the nicM. 

1(1 Tertullian : "rrrte quklem ot innoeenlM ft1adiat«ns ii 
ludum vi'niiint. ut vohipintii publtca hostic fiant ** Jsib 
IJpi. Saturn. Sermon, lib. ii So. iii. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



129 



t]M proAflsional g^bdiatonu Aorelian and Claudius 
Aed preat number* of thoe unlbrtuiiate victifiis ; 
ne after his triumph, and the other oo the pretext 
rebellion. * No war, saya Lipeiufl,' was ever ao de- 
ntin to the human race aa theae aporta. In apite 
le laws of Conat amine and Conataiia, gladiatorial 
fa aurviTed the old eatabliahed reiigioa more than 
9PtT jeara ; but they owed their final extinction to 
courage of a.Chiiatian. In the year 404, oo the ka- 
b «f January, they were exhibiting the ahowa in the 
riaa aanphitbeatre beibre the uaual inunenae coor 
na of people. Ahnachiua or Talemachua, an eastern 
■k, who bad traveUed to Rome intent on hia holy 
foae^ rudied into the nudat of the area, and endca- 
■cd to separate the ocMnhatanta. Theprntor Alypius, 
emoB increthbly attached to theae gamea,' gave instant 
ka to the gladiatora to alay him ; and Teleroachus 
iaad tba crown of martyrdom, and the title of saint, 
Wi fwely has never, either before or since, been 
panled for a more noble expknL Hontmua inunedi- 
tdyakubshed the ahowa, which were never afterwards 
niiied. The atory ia told by Theodoret^ and Cassiodo- 
XB,* and seems worthy of credit, notwithstanding its 
^ in the Roman martyrology.* Besides the torrents 
tf kiaod which flowed at the funerals, in the amphi- 
tulumfae circus, the forums, and other public places, 
^itwii were introduced at feasts, and tore each other 
lipiMCs amidst the supper tables, to the great delight 
■iapplaiase ol the guests. Yet Lipsiua permits him- 
■VlD siqipoae the loss of courage, and the evident de- 
fMcraer of mankind, to be nearly connected with the 
Mdoo of these bloody apectadea.* 

Note 61. Stanza cxlii. 

Herp. where the Romnn million*! blame or praise 
Wh death or life, the playthincs of a crowd. 

When ooe gladiator wounded another, he shouted 
*k kfo if,"* " hoc habet,** or " habct*** The wounded 
caaiittfu]! dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the 
cd^ of the arena, supplicated the s|»ectators. If he had 
fea^ w«ll, the people aaved him ; if otherwise, or as 
tiMT happened to be inclined, they turned down their 
fcmiKi, ani he was slain. They were occasionally so 
nvafe, tnat they were impatient if a combat lasited 
ia^ than ordinary without wounds or death. The 
oi^eror's presence generally sa.ved the vanqiriahed : and 
it ii recorded as an insrtance of C4racalla's ferocity, that 
he Mm thoiie who supplicated him for life, in a spec- 
Ude at Nicomedia, to ask the i>eople ; :n other words, 
Vuded them over to be slain. A similar ceremony is 
observed at the Spanish buU-finhts. The Magistrate prc- 

1 Vopwrof, ID vit. Aorel.; anJ. in vit Clauil. ibid. 

i "Credo, imo irirt. nullum bcUom tantnm clnHrm voftiti- 
•■qae fy»'ri inimanu inluliMe. quain hos ad vuluptatom 
Wml** Just. Lips, iliid. Eb. i. cap. xit. 

3 A>rv^n*v, (lib. vi. ciinfrvs. cup. viii.) " Aljpinninnim 
ffadblohi »pert4euli inhiutn incredibililur abreotuni," ncribiL 
Kid. I>b. i. rap. zii. 

4 llikt nerli-s. rap. xxvi. lib. v. 

5 i'MnuA. Tripartita. I. x. e. xi. Safum. ib. i). 

^ Rvnniu> ad ann. et in notii ad Martyrol. Rom. 1. Jnn. 
^ Nvnufoni df Ik* m«>murie Mcree profane dcH* Amfitoatru 
tTtvut. p. STi edit 1746. 

' " Quod ^ non tn Lipni momentam aliquod hnbuisn ceniK^ 
«' Twtut^m ? Macniim. Tempora nosira, noiuiur ips>t« «iden- 
•■». (HipiJum 4>cre iinum altcrumvn captiiin. din>ptnm o»t ; 
tU'i.Qbu rirrji nns. nun in m »bis : rt tamen concidimuii r>t tur- 
kiamr. I'bi rubur. obi lot per annot roeditata lapieniin itu- 
^t u>« di>- nnimufi qui posmt dtcero^Ai fractua iUahaifr 
e*o ?•• etc. ilrfd.. lib. ii. cup.nj. Tha prototjpe of Mr. 
WBdJMm'i paneg jnc on buU-baitiag. 

p C2 



sides; and, after the horaemen and piccadores have 
fought the bull, the motadore steps forward and bowa 
to him for permission to kill tlie animal. If the bull haa 
done his duty by killing two or three horses, or a man, 
which last is rare, the people interfere with shouts, the 
ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the anunal is saved. 
The wounds and death of the horses arc acctmipanied 
with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures of 
delight, especially from the female portion of the audi- 
ence, including those of the gentlest bkwd. Every thing 
depends on habiL The author of Childc Harold, the 
writer of this note, and one or two other Englishmen, 
who have certainly in other days borne the sight of a 
pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, in the 
govemOT^s box at the great amphitheatre of Santa Ma- 
ria, (^positc to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses 
completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman pre- 
sent, observing them shudder and look pate, noticed 
that unusual reception of so delightful a sport to some 
young ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued 
their applauses as another horse fell bleeding to the 
ground. One bull killed three horses qff^ hi» own honu. 
He was saved by acclamations, which were redoubled 
when it was known he belonged to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with see- 
ing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to 
look at a horse galloping round an arena with his 
bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the spec- 
tacle and spectators with horror and disgust. 

Note G3. Stanza cxliv. 
Like laurels on the bald (iret Cassar's head. 
Suetonius informs us that Julius Conar was particu- 
larly gratified by tliat decree of the senate, which en- 
abled him to wear a Mnreath of laurel on all occasions. 
He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror 
of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger 
at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor 
sliould we without the help of the historian. 

Note 63. Stanza cxlv. 

*' While stands the (^>li«!um. Rome shall stand/* etc 

Tliis is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman 

Empire : and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in 

the Historical Illustrations in tlie IVth Canto of Chikle 

Harold. 

Note G4. Stanza cxlvi. 
■pared and blest by time. 
" Thoujih plundered of all its brass, except the rmg 
which was necessary to preserve the aperture above, 
though exposed to repeated fires, though sometimes 
flooricd by tlie river, and always open to the rain, no 
monument of c<|ual antiquity is so wfell preserved aa 
this rotmida. It pas«iU(i with little alteration from tho 
Pagan into tlie present worship ; and so convenient were 
its niches fur llie Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, 
ever studious of ancrifiit beauty, introduced their de- 
sign as a model of tlic Catholic church." 

Forsyth's Kumarks, etc., on Italy, p. 137. aeiT. edit. 

Note (*j. Stanza rxlvli. 

And tlioy who fifl for irfmiuH may r«'|»rw' 
Their eyes on hunuur'd lorii'H, whoie bu*Ui around tbemcMse 

The Pantheon ha."» boon made a receptacle for the 
b«ist8 of modern great, or, at least, distin«»iusl»ed men. 
The flood of light which once foil through the large oro 
above on the whole circle of divinities, now «hiSAi tA 



130 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



a numerous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of IVom Ae same endnence are leeo the Sabifie 



whom havo been abnost deified by the yeneratioii of 
their countrymen. 

Note 66. Stanza cxlviii. 
There u a liungoon, in whose dim drear light. 
This and the three next stanzas allude to the story of 
the Roman Daughter, which is recalled to the traveller, 
by the site or pretended site of that adventure now 
shown at the church of St. Nicholas in careen. The dif* 
Acuities attending the full belief of the tale, ai« stated 
m Historical Illustrations, etc. 




Noto 67. Stanza dii. 
Turn to the mule which Hadrian reared on hif h. 
The castle of St. Angelo. See Historical lUuatrar 
tkms. 

Note 68. Stanza diii. 
Rut lo ! the dome — the viut and wondroua dome. 
This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
church of St. Peter. For a raeasuroment of the com- 
parative length of this basilica, and the other great 
diurches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, 
and the Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. page 125, 
et seq. chap. iv. 

Note 69. Stanza clxxi. 

iho strange fate 

Which tamblea miKhiieit luvereigna. 

Mary died on tho scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 

heart ; Charles V. a hermit ; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in 

means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and, — **the 

greatest is behind,*' — Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these 

sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 

of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 

Note 70. Stanza clxxiii. 
Lo, Nemi ! naveU'd in the woody hills. 
The village of Nenu was near the Arician retreat of 
Egeria, ami, from the shades which embosomed the 
temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive 
appellation of Tlit Grot;e. Nemi is but an evening's 
ride from the comfortable inn of Albano. 

Note 71. Stanza dxxiv. 



-and afar 



The Tiber windi, and Uie broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast, etc. etc. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beauty, and from the convent on tho highest point, 
which has succeeded to tho temple of the Latian Jupitor, 
the prospect embraces all the ol:jects alluded to in the 
cited stanza : the Mediterranean ; the whole scene of 
the latter half of the ^neid ; and the coast from beyond 
the mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circsum 
and the Cape oTTcrracina. 

Tho site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at 
the Grotta Fcrrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lucien 
Buonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the actual 
site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. 
At present it has lost somethino; of its credit, except for 
me Domenichinos. Nine monks, of tho Greek order, 
hve there, and the adjoining villa is a cardinal's sum- 
mer-house. The other villa, caUed Rufinella, is on the 
summit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich re- 
mains of Tusculum have been found there, besides 
•eventy-two statues of (fifferent merit and prescrvatioii, 
and Mvtn boats. 



embosomed m which lies the long valley of 

There are several circumstances whkh tend to < 

the identity of this vaUey with the " Uttioa** 

and it seems possible that the mosaic pavoDent ^Ml 

the peasants uncover by throwing up the eaith of a ih^ 

yard, may belong to his villa. Rustica is proiMiaaiA 

short, not according to our stress upo»— **IMm 

mbantis.^ — It is more rational to think that w« ■• 

wrong, than that the inhabitants of this secbded til« 

have changed their tone in this word. The wUSfimm 

the consooant prefixed is nothing : yet it ie i 

be aware that Rustica may be a modem name ' 

the peasants may have caught firom the antiquarM^ 

Tlie villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a 

covered with chesnut trees. A stream runs dowi Af : 

valley, and although it is not true, as said m the gorf^ f 

bo<^ that this stream is called licenza, yet then ii • i 

village on a rock at the head of the vaOey which ktf - 

denominated, and which may have taken its naiM iM 

the Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. Ofel€ > 

peak a little way beyond is Ci^teUa, c<HitainiBg ML i 

On the banks of the Anio, a little before yoo torn ^ , 

into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour fim iil 

viUOf is a town called Vico-varo^ another ftvomlli 

coinddence with the Varia of the poet. At the ai ; 

of the valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare ML ■ 

crowned with a little town called Baitiela. At the ii||' 

of this hill the rivulet of Licenza fkrws, and n 

absorbed in a wide sandy bed before it reaches the . 

Nothing can be more fortunate for the lines <^tbe pol^ 

whether in a metaphorical or direct eense : 

** Me quotiona reficit gelidus Dicentia rivos, 
Quem Mandela bibit rofoaua frigore paffos. 

The stream is clear high up the valksy, but beftn k 
reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yeOow Hi 
a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half Ml 
hour's walk from the vineyard where the paveasnl ii 
sliown, does seem to be the site of the &ne of VaoM^ 
and an inscription found there tells that this temple tf 
the Sabine victory was repaired by Vespasian.' WiA 
these helps, and a position corresponding encdy U 
every thing which the poet has told us of his iiiituM, 
we may feel tolerably secure of our site. 

The hill which should bo Lucrctilis is caBed CUN 
panile, and by Iblbwing up the rivulet to the preteadii 
Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mooalik 
Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of pkwfM 
land in the whole valley is on the knoU where thii 
Bandusia rises, 

" Tu fKirna amabile 

FenKis vomere tauria 
Pmbea. et ptscori vairo.** 

llie peasants show another spring nea* the mosaic pate* 

ment, which they call " Oradina," and whidi flows do«i 

the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence tricUn 

over into the Digentia. But we must not hope 

" To trace the Miuca upwards to their sprioc*' 

by exploring the windings of the romantic valley ii 

search of tho Bandusian fountain. It seems strange tblt 



1 IMP. CiTSAR VE8PASIANVS 

PONTIFEX MAXIMVS. TRIB. 

POTEST. CEN80R. iEDEM 

VICTORlifi. VET VST ATE ILLAP8A1L 

BVA. lUPENSA. BES'nTVlT. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



131 



uy Qoe should hare thought Bandaia a (buntain of the 
DiffADa — Horace has not let drop a word of it ; and 
Ihii imiDon^ sprins has, m &ct, been discovered in pos- 
bf the holders oT many good things in Italy, the 
It wad attached to the church of St. Genrais 
aid Protai*, n**ar Venusia, where it was most likely to 
hefiiund.* We shall not be so lucky as a lato traveller 
is tiodoig the oceoiicmal pine still p^hiant on the poetic 
There a not a pine in the whde valley, but there 
iiKo cvTinrsaes, which he evidently took, or mistook, 
far the trcci in the ode. * The truth is, that the pine is 
DOW, as it ^ ad in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and 
il was Qol at all lik<:ly to be found in the craggy ocdiv- 
kies of the volley of Kustica. Horace probably had one 
afiheiQ in the orchard ck»e above his farm, immediately 
Ofcrshaiki A in^ his villa, not on the rocky heights at some 
dHUnc« frocn lus abode. The tourist may have easily 



exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work 
something more and better than a book of travels, but 
they have not made it a bode of travels ; and this ob- 
servation applies more espedally to that enticing method 
of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introductiou 
of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before tbs 
rising gcni^ration, and terrify it into decency by the 
display of all the excesses of the revolution. An ani 
motiity against atheists and re^^iciJcs in general, and 
Frenchmen specifically, may be honourable, and may 
be useful, as a record ; but that antidote should eithei 
be administered in any work rather than a tour, or, al 
least, should be served up ai>art, and not so mixed with 
the whole mass of inn^rnmtion and rctlcction, as to give 
a bitterness to every page : for who would choose tc 
have the aritjpatliics of any man, however just, for hii 
travelling companions 7 A tourist, unless he aspires to 



supposed hifnsL->f to have scon this pine figured in tlie tlie credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes 



ibove ey pre»:(ef , ibr the orange and lemon-trees which 
tbrivw such a bloum over his description of the royal 
i a: Naples, unless they have been since displaced, 



The extreme disappcMntmcnt experienced by 
eboosing ihe Clas-sical Tourist as a guide in Italy, muE>t 
kc allowed to find vent in a few observations, which, it 
■ userted witliout fear of contradiction, will be oon- 
bv evcrv one who has selected the same con- 



which may take place in iho country which he describes : 

but his reader may very fairly esteem all his political 

l>ortraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the 

assuredly only acacias and other common garden moment thoy cease to assist, and more particularly if 

they obstruct, his actual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, 
or governors, is meant to be here offered; but it is 
stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change opo- 
ratetl, either by the address of the late iniiicrial system, 
Aieior [hrcit^h tho sainc country. This author is, in fact, or by the disappointment of every expectation by those 
necif the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers that j who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so 
have mntxr times attaine«J a tem^iorary reputation, and is ! considerable, aixl is sn apparent, as not only to put Mr. 

Eiistace^s Anti«:ullican plulippics entirely out of date, 
but even to throw some suspicion u[>on the competency 
and candour of the author himself. A remarkable ex- 
ample may be found in tlie instance of Bobgna, ovei 
whoso papal attachments, and consequent desolation, 
th«; tourist [lOurs fi^rth such strains of condolence and 
rcvengo, made louder by the borroweil trumpet of IVIr. 
Burkn. Now, Bologna is at this moment, and hai 



very H4i:i>n] to be trusted even when he speaks of ob- 
j«-ctf wluch he must be |)resumed to have sci ii. His 
errors, frum the simple exaggeration to tlie downright 
ufttuc ment, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion 
thu be had either never visited the SfioLs described, or 
Bkl tnste 1 to thti 6ilf lily of fonner writers. Indeed the 
Classical Toiir his evrry characterisUc of a mere com- 
pilaaon of f.irinr-r notices, strung together upon a very 



trader llirea^l of personal observation, and swelled out ; been for some years, notorious amongst the states of 



hy thuse decoiations which are so easily supplied by a 
tnumtxic adoption of ail the commonplaces of praise, 
tppBed to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 
The »t>-le which one person thinks clopjiy and runi- 
brao", an^l unsuitaMe, may be to the taste of others, 
anl fuch mav experience some salutary excitement in 
plau;^hing tlirotigh the periods of the Claiisical I'oiir. 
Il iDut be f-aid, however, that polish and weight are 



Italy for its attachment to revDlutionary principles, anc 
was almost the only city which made any demonstra 
tioiis ill favour of the unfortunate Murat. This change 
may, however, have been made since Mr. Eustace 
visited this country; but the traveller whom he hai 
thrilled with horror at the projected stripping of th< 
copper from the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much 
relieved to find that sacrilege out of the jjowit of the 



l(il to beget an expectation of value. It id amongst the ; French, or any other plunderers, the cupola being cov< 
puu of the damned to toil up a climax wiih a huge cred with Uofl. ^ 



Th*: tourirt had the choice of his words, but there 



If the conspiring voice of otlierAise rival critics bae 
not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour 



«u m Kuch latitude allowed to thaU of hid seniimunts. it would have iN-on unnecessary to warn the reader 
The Uive of *-irnic and of liberty, which must have dis- j that, however it may atlom his library, it will dc of litdi 
tinpiis&ed the character, certainly adorns the pages of or no service to him in his carriage ; and if the judgmen 



Mr. EustiAje, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recom- 
iMBdalory either in an author or his productions, is very 
■"w^cuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these 
^»n:!iit iiuaiities are the foliage of such a performance, 
ud mav be rpresud about it so prominently and pro- 
in^r, u to embarrass those wiio wish to see and find 
(^ fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 

1 Sk Hiftoriral Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 

2**<luwie«J T«»ur. e4c. chap, vii., p. 250. vol. ii. , 

' "■ Ci«J«r our windows, and bordering on tlie bi:uch. dp »hc 



of lUovi critics had hitherto l>eeii siis[>cnded, no attemp 
would have Keen inatlo to anticipate their decision. A) 
it is, those who st-.uid in the r«lalion of poi.lcrily ti 
Mr. Eustacf, may be permitted to appeal from cotcm 
porary jiraises, and are perhaps more likely to bo jus 



1 " Whiit, tlipn. will bo lh« astonishment, or rathw Hu hot 
n»r of my roRihT, when I iurorin hiin ....... Jhe rn-nci 

Coininitt«« luriirtl itN atlontiim iu»nint PpIit'* and pmpl«)7e< 
a compHiif of Ji'wa Ui rMtiinutc nnd puirhai«c tho i;olit,iiilvei 
ami hunm: ilml Hiltun thi.» iiiiiiil« nf ilii' ♦■dihtv. d« well Si 






132 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



in proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the 
farther removed. This appeal had, in aome meaaure, 
been made before the above remarks were written ; for 
one of the most respectable of the Florentine publishen, 
wm had been persuaded by the repeated inquiries of 
tnose on their Journey southwards, to reprint a cheap 
edition of the Classical Tour, waa^ |tj the concurring 



advice of returning travellers, ind»cg<i to ai 
design, although he had already arranged his 
paper, and had struck off one or two of the fi 
The writer of these notes would wish to 
Mr. Giblxm) on good terms with the Pope an 
dinals, but he does not think it necessary to • 
same discreet silence to their humble partisai 



A FRAGMENT OP A TURKISH TALE. 



One ftAsl liniMiybraDce— one ■onow that throws 
Its bMtklii^ alfkb o*er our joyn and oar woe»— 
To whteb IHliiiliiMhinff darker nor brighter ean brine. 
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no itinc. 

MOORE. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESa 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST BINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OP mS GENIUS 
RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP; 
THIS PBODUOTZOH IS IHSORXBED, 
BY HIS OBLUGBD AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

BYRON. 



m wi» 



:V'.'^w 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Tale which these disjointed fragments present, is 
founded upon circumstances now less common in the 
East than formerly; either because the ladies are 
more circumspect than in the " olden time ;" or be- 
cause the Christians have better ibrtune, or less en- 
terprise. The story, when entire, contained the 
adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the 
Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, ai the time 
the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
Venice, and soon afler the Amaouts were beaten back 
from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some 
time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The deser- 
tion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of 
Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, 
and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the 
cruelty exercised on all sides was tuparalleled even 
» the annals of the faithful. 



THE GIAOUR. 



No breath of air to break the wave 
lliat mils below the Athenian's grave, 
lliat tomb ' which, gleaming o'er the difi^ 
hSnt greeii the homeward-veering ikiff, 
High o'er the land he saved hi vain : 
When shall such hero lire again 7 
* * 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles. 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimpling. Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edcns of the eastern wave ; 
And if, at times, a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the Rcas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafb the odours there ! 
For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the nightingale,' 
The maid for whom his melody. 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
Ilis queen, the garden queen, his rose. 
Unbent by winds, unchili'd by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west. 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share 
And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
Lurks for the passing peaceful pfow, 
Till the gay mariner's guitar ' 
Ij heard, and aeen the evenmf etarj 



THE GIAOUR. 



133 



wiOi tlie muffled otr, 
1 bj the rodiy shore, 
ugfat-prowiev* on the prej, 

groans his rouodebj. 

ihat where Nature loved to trtce, 

gods, a dwelling-place, 

- charm and grace bath imx'd 

3 paradise she fix'd, 

n, enanxNir'd of distross, 

IT it into wildeniess, 

pie, fanite-like, o'er each flower 

B DoC one laboiioos hour; 

s the culture of his hand 

1 along the fairy land, 

^ as to preclude his care, 
tlj WO08 him — but to gpare ! 
•that where all is peace beside 
naoo riots in her pride, 
ukI rapine wildly reign 
1 o'er the fair domain, 
ough the fiends preraiPd 
be wenfha thej assuPd, 
on besTcnly thrones, diould dwell 
. inheritors of hell ; 
e scene, so form'd for joy, 
he tyrants that destroy ! 

> hath bait him o'er the dead, 
rst day c^ death is fled, 
dark day of nothingness, 
of danger and distress, 
lecay's effacing finders 
^ the lines where beauty lingers), 
I'd the mild angelic air, 
ure of repose that's there, 
yet tender traits that streak 
lor of the placid cheek, 
. for that sad shrouded eye, 
res not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
(t for that chill, changeless brow, 
4d obstruction's apathy^ 
e gazing mourner's heart, 
im it could impart 
1 he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
lor these, and these alone, 
ments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
ight doubt the tyrant's power ; 
cahn, so sofUy seal'd, 
last look by death reveal'd ! * 
ie aspect of this shore ; 
see, but living Greece no more ! 
sweet, so deadly fair, 
for soul is wanting there. 
• loveliness in death, 
i not quite with parting breath ; 
J with that fearful bloom, 
which haunts it to the tomb, 
d's last receding ray, 
tak> hovering round decay, 
"en beam of feeling past away ! 
it flame, perchance hi heavenly birth, 
■I, but warms no more its cherish'd earth ! 

{ the nnforgotten brave ! 
i4ft«B plaiD to BMwntiin-cave 
I 



Was freedom's home or glory's grave ! 
Slirino of the mighty ! can it be, 
That this is all remains of thee 7 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Say, is not this Thermopyla; 7 
These waters blue that round you lave. 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this 1 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of feat 
That tyranny shall quake to beat, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame 
They too will rather die than shame : 
For fieedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son. 
Though baffled off, is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy Uving page. 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
Have left a nameless pyramid. 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountuns of their native land ! 
There points thy muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 
'T were long to tell, and sad to brace, 
Each step from splendour to disgrace ; 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes ! self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 

What can he tell who treads thy shore 7 

No legend of thine olden time. 
No theme on which the muse might soar, 
High as thine own in da3's of yore, 

When man was worthy of thy clime. 
The hearts within thy valleys bred. 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave. 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes . 
Without even savage virtue blest, 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighbouring ports they waff 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
In this the subtle Greek is found, 
For this, and this alqpc, renown'd. 
In vain might liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke, 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoks 
No more her sorrows I bewail, 
Tet this will be a mournful tale. 
And they who listen may believe. 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve 

# e n e e ^ « 



134 



BYRON S WORKS. 



Far, dark, akmg the bhie-sea gtaaciag, 
The shaiiows of the rocks atltanciiif. 
Start on the fwher*! e>-e like boat 
Of isiaiHl- pirate or Mainote ; 
And, fearful for hw light caique, 
He ahum the near, but doubtful creek: 
Though worn and weary with hit tod. 
And cumberM with hit scaly ipoil, 
Sk>wly, xfA strongly, plies the o^, 
Tdl Port Leone*s safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an eaatem night. 

♦ ♦♦♦•»• 

Who thundering comes oo blackest steed, 
With slackcnM bit, and hoof of speed? 
Beneath the clattering iron^s sound, 
llie cavcm*d echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
The foani that streaks the couHr«er*s wtd% 
Seems gathtfrM firom the ocean-tide ; 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest. 
There *s none within his rider*s breast ; 
And though to-morrow*s tempest lower, 
Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!* 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
Bat in thy lineaments I trace - 
What time shall strengthen, not efllace : 
Tliough young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery paMioii*s brunt ; 
Though bont on earth thine e\*il eye. 
As meteor-like thou glidesl by, 
Right well 1 new ami deem thee one 
Whom Othman*s sons should slay or riwn. 

On — on he hastened, and be drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of tlte night 
He passM and vanished from my tight. 
His aspect and his air impressed 
A troubled memor}' on my breast. 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung hik dark courser^s hoo(s of fear. 
He spurs his steed ; he nears the alecp, 
That, jutting, shadovij o'er the deep ; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves lum from mine eye ; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fixM on those that flee ; 
And not a star but bhines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight. 
He wpund akxig ; but, ere he passed, 
One glance he snatched, as if his last, 
A moment chcckM his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood— 
Why looks h* o^er the olive-wood ? 
The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
The mosque^s high lamps are quivering stiD : 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike, * 
H-o flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's icaL 
To>uight, set Rharoazani's sun ; 
I o night the Bairmm feast 's begun ; 
To. night — but wno and what art thou, 
Ol inrfigo garb and fearful brow? 



And what are these to thine m tiNC, 
That th u sliotiUfet either pause or flee? 
He stood — some dr«rad was oo Km face, 
So(m hatred settled in its plaetr : 
It rose not with the reddening dutk 
Of transiera anger's darkaung bllld^ 
But pale as iharble o'er the tomb, 
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its giooib 
His brow was bent, his eye wae glaied. 
He raised his arm, and fiercely raieed, 
And sternly shook his hand on hi^ 
As doubting to return or fly : 
Impatient of his flight delay'd, 
Here k>ud his raven charger neighed— 
Down glanced that hand, and grmap'd hit ki 
That sound had burst his waking drean^ 
As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
The spur hath lanced his courser's adu, 
Away, away, fiir life he rides ; 
Swifk as the huii'd on high jerreed, ' 
Springs to the touch his startled steed; 
Tlte rock is doubled, and the shore 
Shakes with the clattering tramp no : 
The crag is won, no more is seen 
His Chn:;tian crest and haughty 
*T wax but an instant he rcstrain'd 
That fiery l»arb so sternly rein'd : 
'T was but a moment that he stood. 
Then sped as if by death pursued ; 
But in that instant o'er his soul 
Wmter» of menMny seem'd to roll. 
And gather in that drop of time 
A life of pain, an age of crime. 
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fean. 
Such moment pours the grief of yean: 
What felt he then, at ooce oj^rest 
By all that most distracts the breast? 
That pause, which ponder'd o'er Us fete. 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
llraugh in time's record nearly nou^bt, 
It was eternity to thought ! 
For infinite as boundless space 
The thought that conscience murt cabnee 
Wluch in itself can comprehend 
Woe without name, or h<^, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone; 
And did he fly or fall alone? 
Woe to that hour he came or went! 
The curse for Hassan's un was aent. 
To turn a palace to a tomb : 
He came, he went, like the sunoon, ** 
That harbinger of fate and gloom. 
Beneath whoM widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to dnth 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fh 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead! 

The steed is vanudi'd from the stall ; 
No serf is seen in Has^nm's hall ; 
The lonely spider's tlun gray peQ 
Waves slowly widening o'er tlie wall; 
The ba* build* in his haram bower; 
And in the fortress of his power 
The owl usurps the beacon-towei ; 
The wild-do!! howls o'er the foimtain'«i brii 
With baflled thint, and tune frin; 



I 



THE GIAOUR. 



135 



^•m kmt rimmk finom tt> marUe bed, 
t w«edimd the dcsoUte duaC are spread, 
«et ef yore to see it play 
the auhrineaa of day, 
io{ hi^ the silver dew 
antaatifraUy flew, 
liixurioiis oooloess round 
ad feffdare o*er the ground, 
eec, when cloudieaa stara were bright, 
tie wave of watery Ught, 
its mdody by might, 
id Hassan's diildhood play'd 
e verge of that cascade ; 
vm his mother's breast 
k1 had harmonized his rest; 
id Hassan's youth along 
«en soothed by beauty's song; 
r seero'd each melting tone 
niRgled with its own. 
diaU Hassan's age repose 
brink at twihght's close : 
m that fill'd that font is fled» 
i that warm'd his heart is shed ! 
no more shall human voice 
to rage, regret, rejoice ; 
(ad note that swell'd the gale 
lan's wildest funeral wail : 
iched in silence, all is still, 
ittice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 
«ves the gust, and floods the rain, 
ihall dose its clasp again. 
; sands 't were joy to scan 
It steps of fellow man^ 
lie very voice of grief 
ke an echo like relief; 
: would say, " all are not gone ; 
ngen life, though but in om 
a gilded chamber's there, 
litude might well forbear ; 
at dome as yet decay 
riy WiM-k'd her cankering way— 
I is gathered u'cr the gate, 
the fakir's self will wait ; 
will wandering dervise slay, 
y cheers not liis delay ; 
will weary stranger halt 
he sacred " bread and salL" " 
1 wealth and poverty 
[less and unheeded by, 
esy and piiy died 
«an on the mountain side, 
that refuge unto men, 
ion*8 hungry den. 

ies the hall, and the vassals from labour, 
rbaa was cleft bv the infidel's sabre! " 



he sound of coming feet, 
▼once mine ear to greet ; 
r— each turban I can scan, 
r-sheathed ataghan ; ** . 
MMrt of the band is seen, 
ly his garb of green : *♦ 
10 art thou? — this low sahun'* 
fMastem &ith I am. 



_» 



The burthen ye so gently bear. 
Seems one tliat claims your utmost care, 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight. 
My humble bark would gladly wait." 

" Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that's scaticr'd by ; 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
Tlie channeU'd waters dark and deep, 
Rest from your task — so— bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
Yet't is the Imigest voyage, I trow. 
That one of " 



Sullen it plunged, and sbwly sank, 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it nK>re,— 't was but the beam 
That chequer'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
StiH less and less, a speck of white 
That genun'd the tide, then mock'd the sight ; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep, 
Known but to genii of the deep. 
Which,, trembling in their coral cavM 
Tliey dare not whispm' to the waves. 
♦ ♦ » ♦ ♦ 

As riring on its purple wing 
The insectH]ueen '* of eastern spring. 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmecr 
Invites the young pursuer near, 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour. 
Then leaves him, as it soars on hign, 
With panting heart and tearful eye : 
So beauty lures the full-grown chik). 
With hue as bright, and wing as n-ild , 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in foDy, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
Woe wails the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
From infant's play, and man's caprice . 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
Ilath lost its charm by being caught. 
For every touch that wooed its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
Till, charm, and hue, and beauiy gone, 
»T is left to fly or fall alone. 
With wo'jnded wing, or bleeding brt-AKt, 
Ah ! where shall cither victim rest '/ 
Cpu this with faded pinion soar 
Fro»n rose to tul".,* is before 7 
Or beauty, blighted m an hour, 
Find joy within her broken Iwwer i 
No : gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those tJiat d.«. 
And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every fisuling but their own, 



I 



136 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Am] every woe a tear can dnini 
Excriit an erring sister** sliame. 



The mind, that broods o'er giiihy 
Is like the sa)r|iicn girt by fire, 
In c'irc\i» narrnwinv aui it glows, 
The flames around their captire ckMe, 
Till, inly soarchM by thousand throefl| 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows. 
The sting she nourishM for her fbei, 
Whose venom never yet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain : 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like scopion girt by fire ; '' 
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven. 
Unfit fur earth, undoomM for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath. 
Around it flame, within it death ! 

Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
Nor hends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The imwonted chase each hour emploft, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not tluifl was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his SeraL 
Doth Leila there no longer dweO? 
That tale can only Hassan teU : 
Strange rumours in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away. 
When Rhamazan's '* last mm was ael. 
And, flashing from each minaret, 
Millions of lamps proclairo'd the feast 
Of Bairam tlirough the boundless east. 
'T was then she went as to the balh, 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
For she was flown Iicr master's rage. 
In likeness of a Georgian page. 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd. 
Too well ho trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque. 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell. 
Who did not watch their charge too wdl ; 
But others say, that on that night. 
By pale Phingari's ** trembling light, 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore. 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 



Her eye's dark charai't wore vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the gaielle. 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly daiic, 
""lut stud hcam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bri|hl ftt the jmrel of G<uiiKfaid.« 



Yea, sou/, and shouM oar pnplwt say 
That form was nought but hmsthii day, 
By Alia ! 1 would answer nay ; 
Though on AUSirat's** arch I stood. 
Which totters o'er the fiery flood. 
With paradise within my view, 
And all his houris beckoning through. 
Oh ! who young Leila's glance could icai 
And keep that portion of his creed** 
Wliich saith that woman is but doA, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? 
On her might muAis gaze, and own 
That through her eye the Immortal Acn 
On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
Tlie young pomegranate's ^' bioesoniB sli 
Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 
Her hair in hyacinthine ** flow, 
When left to roll its folds below. 
As 'midst her handmaids in the haU 
She stood su|>erior to them all. 
Hath swept tlie marble where her feel 
Gleam'd whiter tlian the mountain rieel. 
Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
The loveliest binl of Franguestan ! ** 
As rears her crest the rufl^ed swan. 

And sfHims the wave with wings oTpii 
When pass the steps (^stranger man 

Along the banks that boimd her tide ; 
Thus ruse fair Ix;ila's whiter neck:— 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she dieck 
Intrusion's glance, till folly's eaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praiw 
Thus high and graceful w^s her gut ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stem Hassan, who was he? 
Alas! tiiat naiiu- was not f<jr thee! 

Stem Hassan haih a journey ta'en, 
With twenty vassal^ in his train. 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man. 
With arquebu9s and ataghan ; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stain'd with the best of Amaut blood. 
When in the pass the rebels stood. 
And few rcttirn'd to tell the tale 
Of what befell m Faroe's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pacha wore, 
Wliich still, though genun'd and bos^d m 
Evon robbers tremble to behold. 
'T is said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side ; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaonr ! 

The sun's last rajn are on the hill. 
And s]>arkle in the fountain rill. 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer: 
Here may the loitering mercham Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vtn to seek 



THE GIAOUR. 



137 



In cities lodged loo near hk lord, 
\Dd trenbtinf fiir his secret hoard. 
dere may he rest where none can aee^ 
Ib crowds a ilave, in deserts free; 
And whh forbidden wine may stain 
Tbe bowl a Moslem most not drain. 



The foreoMMt Tartar's m the gap, 
CoDsfncnous hj his yellow cq» ; 
The rest in lengthening line die while 
Wmd slowly threogh the long defile : 
Abofe, the mnwnfain reari ^PMk, 
Where niltures whet the diirsly beak, 
And then may be a feast to>ni^it, 
Siafl tempt them down ere morrow's U^ ; 
Beoealh, a nTer'a wintry stream 
Ha dmmk before the summer beam. 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Stie shrahs that spring to perish thert : 
£tdi side the midway path there lay 
rassll broken crags of granite gray, 
By time, or nwwmtain Ughtning, riren 
Fhn smnmits clad in mists ofheavw; 
For where is he that hath beb^ 
The peak of Liakura unreil'd 7 



Tliey reach the grove of pine at bat; 
<*Bi9iniHah ! ** now the perU 's past; 
For Tooder riew the opening plain, 
And there we ni prick our steeds amain:" 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
S«iA from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again: 
Cdk«d the foeR that gave the wound, 

T^ dying ask revenge in vain. 
^ith >teel mnheathed, and carbine bent, 
SwK o*er their coursers' harness leant. 

Half shelteHd by the steed ; 
Some flj behind the nearest rock, 
And there await the owning shock. 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
BoKath the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Sicm Hassan only from his horse 
I^Miains to light, and keeps his course, 
Td fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Btve well secured the only way 
^^ouid DOW avail the promised prey ; 
^cwl'd his very beard *'' vnth ire, 
^ glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
"Thou|;fa far and near the bullets hiss, 
''^scaped a bloodier hour than this.*" 
^ now the foe their covert quit, 
^^ ciO his vanals to sulmiit ; 
But Ha»an*s frown and furious word 
^ droaiJed more than hostile sword, 
'^'w of his fittle band a man 
^«aifii'd carbine or at^ghan, 
^'or raised the craven cry, Amaiml ** 
«3 



In fuller sight, more near and near, * 

The lately ambushM foes appear, 
And, issuing frc«n the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
Far flashing in his red right hand 7 
«'Tis he! 'tis he! I know him now; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye ** 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb : 
Though now arrayM in Amaut garb, 
- Apostate from his own vile faith, 
It shall not save him from the death : 
'T is he ! well met in any hour ! 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!" 

As rolls the river into ocean, 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure colunm proudly gleaming. 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood, 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundrring clast^ 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean gn*ct. 
With waves that madden as they meet~ 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual niTong, 
And (ate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar, 
And pealing wide or tinging near 
Its echoes on the throbbing ear. 
The death-shot hissing from afar, 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war 
Reverberate along that vale. 
More suited to the she{iherd's tale : 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strifr, 
That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can |iress, 
To seize and share the dear caress ; 
But love itself could never pant 
For ail that beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervour hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes. 
When grap|)Iing in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall loiwse their hi'ld 
Friftnds meet to part ; love laughs at faith . 
True foes, once met, are joinM till death ! 
*♦♦»♦*♦ 

VVith sabre shiver'd to the hilt. 
Yet dripping with the blood he spiJ* j 
Yet Rtrain'd within the seveHd hand 
Which quivers round that faithlfss brand ; 
His turban far behind him rolIM, 
And clofl in twain its firmest tM«i ; 
His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
And crimson as those clouds of mom 
That, strcakM with dusky red, porteno 
The day shall have a stormy end j 
A stain on every bush that bore 
A fngmeot of hii oalampore,^^ 



138 



BYROmS WORSB 



Hii breast with wounds unnaabtt'd rifen, 
His back to earth, his face to he«T«, 
Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed eje 
Tet lowering on his enemj, 
As if the hour that sealM his fate 
Surviving loft hi4 quenchless hate ; 
And o*er him bends that foe with brow 
As dark as his that bled bek>w. — 
♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

** Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave ; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feeL 
He callM the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeRil Giaotnr 
He callM on AUa— but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Pajnum fool ! coukl Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? 
I watch'd my tmie, I leagued with these. 
The traitor m his turn to seize; 
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
And DOW I go— 4>ut go alone." 



The browzing camels' beDs are tinkling: 
His mother look'd from her latUce high — 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
«*Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden-boww , 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower - 
** Why comes he not 7 his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift? 
Is his heart more odd, or his barb less swift ? 
Oh, false rq>roach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gainM our nearest mountain's brow. 
And warily the steep descends, 
And now within the valley bends ; 
And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow— 
How could I deem his courser slow? 
Right weD my lai^ess shall repay 
His welcome sp«^ and weary way." 
The Tartar lighted at the gate. 
But scarce uphekl his fainting weight : 
His swarthy visage spake distress. 
But this might be 6rom weariness ; 
His garb with sanguine spots was dyed. 
But these nught be fix>m his courser's side ; 
He drew the token from his ve«t — 
Angel of Death ! 't is Hassan's cloven crest ! 
His calpac " rent— his caftan red — 
*' Lady, a fearful bride thyieon hadi wed : 
Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
But tlus empurpled pledge, to bear. 
Peace to the brave I whose blood is sfHk: 
Woe to the Giaour! for his the guih." 



A turban *' carved m coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 



Whereon can now be scarcdy read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an OsmanK 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
As ever scom'd forbidden wine, 
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solenui sound of <* Alia Hu ! "'' 
Tet cUed he by a stranger's hand, 
And stranger in his native land ; 
Yet died he as in arms he stood. 
And unavenged, at least in blood. 
But him the maids of paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite, 
And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
TTiey come — thoir kerchiefs green they 
And welcome with a kiss the breve ! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But thou, false infidel ! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's ** scythe; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost EbUs' ** throne ; 
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
Around, within, tbyHfeart shall dwell ; 
Nor ear can hoar npr.tBOgue can tell 
The tortures of that^ijiwuxi hell ! 
But first, on earth ar Vampire " sent, 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife. 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which peiforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shan know the demon for their sire. 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime nnist &11, 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall bless thee with a fatiur'M nam»~ 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her check's last tinge, her eye's last spi 
And the last glossy glance imist view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
Then with unhaliow'd hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which in life a lock, when shorn, 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; 
But now is home away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall urip 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
Then, stalking to thy sullen grave. 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursod than they ! 



THE GIAOUR. 



I3S 



'*H<m HUM je jon kne CalojwT 

Hb fettnres I haw scannM befbro 
In mine own land : \n many a yaar, 

Since, dashing by the kmdj rium, 
I nw ham urge as fleet a steed 
Af erer terred a horaeman's need. 
But once I saw thai face, yet then 
It was BO nark'd with mward puB, 
leooldaoc pan it by again; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death were stamp'd open his brow." 

"Tiftwioe three years at sammer-tide 
Snee first among our fieres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide ' 

For some dark deed he inD not nune. 
Bat never at our vesper prayer, 
Nor e^er before confession duur 
Kneds he, aor recks he when arin 
heeoN or anthem to the sides, 
Botliroods within his odl akme. 
His iutk and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
And here ascended from the coast; 
f et seeass he not of Othman race, 
BM ody Christian in his base : 
Pd judge him some stray renegade, 
BepeMant of the change he made, 
Sirs that he sfaaas our holy shrine. 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wino. 
Great largess to these walls he brou^it, 
And thos our abbot*s favour bought: 
But, were I prior, not a day 
flhoold brook such stranger's further stay. 
Or, peat within our penance cefl, 
Siodd doom him there for aye to dwdL 
Much in his visions mutters be 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashins, focmen flying, 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On dsfl* he hath been known to stand. 
And rave as to some Moody band 
Fresh sever'd firom its parent limb^ 
Invisibte to all but him. 
Which beckons onwaid to his grave. 
And lures to leap into the wave." 



Dark and unearddy is the scowl 

That glares beneath his dusky cowl: 

■Hie fladi of that dilating eye 

Reveals too much of tiroes gone by ; 

Tboo^ varyinf , indistinct its hue. 

Oft win his glance the gazer me, 

For in it Inrks that nameless spett 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unqoeUM and high, 

Hiat daims and keeps ascendancy; 

And like the bird whose piniolM qualce. 

But cannot fly the gazing snake. 

Win others quail beneadi bis kwk, 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 

From him the haB^afirigfated friar 

When met alone would fain retire. 

As if that eye and bitter smile 

Traitfen'd to others fear and goilet 



Not oft to smile desccndeth he, 

And when he doth 't is sad to see 

That he but mocks at miseiy. 

How that pale lip mil curl uid quiver ! 

Then fix once more as if for ever ; 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e*er to smile again. 

Well were it so— such ghastly mirth 

FVom joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 

But sadcier stiU it were to trace 

What once were feelings in that face : 

Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 

But brighter traits with evil mixM ; 

And there are hues not alwavs faded. 

Which speak a mind not all degraded, 

Even by the crimes through which it vraded : 

The common crowd but see the gloom 

Of wajTward deeds, and fitting doom ; 

The dose observer can espy 

A noble soul, and lineage high : 

Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain, 

Which grief could change, and gtult could slain, 

It was no vulgar tenenuint 

To which such lofly gifls wore lent. 

And StiU %rith little less than dread 

On such the sight is riveted. 

The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 

Will scarce delay the passer-by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent. 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; 
Each ivied arch, and piUar lone. 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone I 
<< His floating robe around him (biding. 

Slow sweeps he through the column'd usle . 
With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 

The rites that sanctify the pile. 
But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
And kneel the monks, liis steps retire ; 
By yonder lone and wavering torch 
His aspect glares within tlie porch ; 
There will he pause till all is done— 
And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
See— by the half-illumined wall 
His hood fly back, his dark hair faU, 
That pale brow wildly wreathing roimd, 
As if the Gorgon there had bound 
The sablest of the serpent-braid 
That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
For he declines the convent oath. 
And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth, 
But wears our garb in all beside; 
And, not from piety but pride. 
Gives wealth to waUs that never heard 
Of his one holy vow nor word. 
Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
Peals louder pruses to the sky. 
That Uvid cheek, that stony air 
Of mix'd deflance and despair! 
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine* 
Else may we dread the wrath divine 
Made manifest by awful sign. 
If ever evil angel bore 
The form of mwrtal, such ho wok : 
By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
Such hwks an not of earth dot beuNcnV 



.40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To lovo the suftcvt heaiti are prona^ 
But such can ne'er be all liii own { 
Too timid in his woea to rhare, 
Too nM*ek to meet, or breve despair ; 
And sterner hearts akme majr feel 
The wound that time can neTcr beaL 
Tho nigged metal of tho mine 
Must bum before its surface shine, 
But plunged within the fumace-Baine^ 
It bends and melts— though still the same ; 
Tlien tempered to thy want, or will, 
T will serre thee to defend or loll ; 
A breastplate for thine hour of need. 
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 
But if a dagger's form it bear, 
Let tlioM who shape its edge beware ! 
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art. 
Can turn and tame tho sterner heart; 
From these its form and tone are ta'en. 
And what they make it, roust remain, 
But break — before it bend again. 



If solitude succeed to grief. 
Release from pain is flight reHef ; 
Ther vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might tluink the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss— 't were woe alone to bear ; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To level o'er their rotting sleep. 
Without the power to score away 
The cold consumers <^ their clay ! 
It is as if the desert-bird,** 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her faroish'd nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
Tho keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind. 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 

Who would bo doom'd to gaze upon 

A sky without a cloud or sun 7 

Jjess hideous far the tempest's roar 

Than ne'er to brave the billows more— 

Tlirown, when the war of winds is o'er, 

A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 

'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 

Unseen to drop by dull decay :— 

Better to sink beneath tho shock, 

Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 
« * ♦ « « * 

" Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer 

To bid the sins of others cease, 
Thyself without a crime or care, 

Sa\e transient ills that all must bear. 

Has oecn thy lot from youth to age ; 

And ihou wiit bless thee from the rife 



Of (nssions fierce and unoootrolTd, 
Such as thy p4?aitents unfukl. 
Whose secret sins and sorrows reel 
Within thy pure and pitying breasL 
My days, though few, have pass'd b^luw 
In much of joy, but more of woe ; 
Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
I 've 'scaped the weariness ol life : 
Now leagued with fnends, now girt by fbcs, 
I loathed ttie languor of repose. 
Now nothing left to k>ve or hate, 
No more with liope or pride elate, 
I 'd rather be the thing that crawls 
Mont noxious o'er a dimgeon's wan% 
Than pass my dull, unvarying ciays, 
CondcmnM to meditate and gaze: 
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
For rest — but not to feel 't is rest. 
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, arid would be still. 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom: 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a Ufe of lingering woes. 
My spirits shr\ink not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaselese pain : 
Nor sought the sel^aooorded grave 
Of ancient fool and moderii knave : 
Yet death I have not feaHd to meet; 
And in the field it had been sweet, 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I 've braved it — not for honour's boast ; 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their way. 
For high renown, or hireling pay: 
But place agun before my ejres 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize ; 
The maid I love, the man I hate, 
And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
To save or slay, as these require, 
Through rending steel, and rolling fve: 
Nor need'st thou doubt this speedi from one 
Who would but do — ^what be haA done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave, 
The weak must bear, the wretch must craw 
Then let life go to him vHio gave : 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happ y ne ed I nam J 



« I loved her, fnar ! nay. 

But these are words that all can 
I proved it more in deed than word ; 
There's blood upon that dimed ewocd, 

A stain its steel can never loae : 
'T was shed for her, who died for.me, 

It warm'd die heart of one abhorr'd : 
Nay, start no^—no n or bend thy knee, 

Nor midst n^ sins soch act record: 
Thou wilt absdve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to thy creed! 
The very name of Nazarene 
Wu wor m wood to hie PAynim ■piiia. 



THE GIAOUR. 



141 



Uofnte&ilfool! BDoe butferbnndf 

Wdl wielded in Mme hard j handii^ 

AndvouDdsbj Gmlilcaiui given, 

lie surest {iom to TurkLsfa heAvea, 

For lura his Hoons stiU nugiit wak 

IflfMtieQt at the prophet's gate. 

IWrcdher— lore will find iti way 

Tfaroo^ paths where wolvee would foar to prey, 

bd if it dares enough, \ were bard 

iTptsBon net not some reward— 

Nomtter how, or where, or wlqr, 

I(UiiotTunlysedc, nor n^; 

Yet Homrtimee, with remorse, in vaia 

I wak she had not loved again. 

8be died-^ dare not tell thee how; 

But look— *tis written on mj brow! 

TVere read of Cun the cutm and aima 

h dianetera unworn by time : 

861, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; 

Net Bune the act, though I the cause. 

7et(fid he but what I had done 

Rid ihe been (abe to more than one. 

Fiilhhsi to him, he gave the blow ; 

Bet tnie to me, I laid him low : 

Hose^ desenred her doom might be, 

Bv treacherjr was truth to me ; 

Toon ibe gave her heart, that all 

WUeh tjrtnnj can ne'er enthral ; 

Aiidl,aks! too late to save ! 

TeteU I then could give, I gave, 

T WIS eome relief^ our foe a grave. 

Hiidetthiits lightly; but her fate 

Hif onde me— what thou well maj'st hate. 
Hb doom was seai'd — he knew it well, 

**inM by dw voice of stem Taheer, 

Deep ia whose darkly-boding ear^ 

The death-shot peaTd of murder near. 
As filed the troop to where they feU I 

He died too in the battle broil, 

Atiaie that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 

Oae cry to Mahomet for aid, 

Oae prajer to Alia all he made : 

He kaew and crossed me in the firay— 

I p»d upon him where be lay, 

Aad walefaM his spirit ebb away : 

IVxi^ pierced like pard by hunters* steel, 

Hefehoot half that now I feel. 

I Kireh^d, but vainly scarch'd, to find 

^ wortings of a wounded mind ; 

Eich feature of that sullen corse 

Betraj'd hif rage, but no remorse. 

Oh, idiat had vengeance given to tiaoe 

I^nir upon his dying face! 

1^ late repentance of that hour, 

^^ penitence hath lost her power 

Totear one terror fitm the grave, 

Aad wifl not soothe, and cannot save. 
* m * * * 

"The cold m dime are cold in blood, 
TVir k>ve can scarce deserve the name ; 

Bat miiie was like the lava flood 
That boils m Etna's breast of flame. 

I cuuMt prate in puling strain 

Of ladje-k>vn, and beauty's chain : 

If changing cheek, and icfltriring vdi^ 

Q 



Lips tau^t to writhe, but not complain. 
If bursting heart, and maddening brain. 
And daring deed, and vouj^ful steel. 
And all that I have felt, and feci, 
Betoken love— that love was mine. 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
T is true I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but first I have possessed. 
And, come what may, I have been blest. 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid 7 
No — reft of all, yet undiamay'd 
But for tho thought of LeUa alain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain. 
So would I live and love again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
For him who dies, but her who died : 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave— 
Ah ! had she but an earthly grave. 
This breaking heart and tluobbiug head 
Should seek and ithare her narrow bed. 
She was a form of life and light. 
That, seen, became a part of sight ; 
And rose where'er I tumM mine eye. 
The morning-star of memory ! 



^ Tes, love indeed is light fh>ra heaven ; 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given. 

To lifl from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafta the mind above. 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from tho Godhead caught. 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A ray of him who formM the whole ; 
A glory circling round the soul ! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh aay, hen was not guih* 
She was my life's unerring light ; 
That qucnch'd, what beam nhoU break my wght T 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still. 
Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
Why marvel, ye, if they who lose 

litis present joy, this future hope. 

No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In phrensy then their fate occuso : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to woo f 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward blow , 
Who falls from all he kncws of bliss, 
Cares little into what abysa. 
Rcrce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
I read abhorrence on thy brow, 

And this too was I boni t<» bear ! 
»T w true, that, like that bird of prey. 
With havoc have I markM my way . 
But this was taught me by the dove, 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Tauigfat by the thing be dirai to fmim - 



'I 
■ ■ 1 



142 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The bird that sings within the brake. 
The swan that swims upon the lake, 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still proae to range. 
And sneer on all who cannot change. 
Partake his jest with boasting bo3rs ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 
But deem such feeble, heartless maa, 
Lesp than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He led believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine- 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe. 
My hope on high — my all bdow. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or if it doth, in vain for me : 
For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
'T is all too late — thou wert, thou art 
Hie cherishM madness of my heart ! 

** And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 

But not the breath of human life : 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 

And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike an time, abhorr'd all place, 
Shuddering I shrunk from nature's &ce^ 
Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my boeom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know. 
And all my sins, and half my woe. 
But talk no more of penitence ; 
Thou see^st I soon shall part from hence : 
And if thy holy tale were true. 
The deed that's done can'st thou undo? 
Think me not thankless— but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief.^* 
My soul's estate in secret goess : 
But wouldst thou pi^ more, say less. 
When thou canst bid my Leila live. 
Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 
Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
From forest-cave her shriddug young. 
And calm the lonely lioness : 
But soothe not — mode not my distrees ! 

" In earlier days, and calmer hours. 

When heart with heart delights to blend. 
Where bloom my native valley's boweni 

I had — ah 1 have I now 7 — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

MenKH-ial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind hint of my end : 

Tliough souls absorb'd like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'T is strange — he |>rophe*ied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could smUe— 
Wlicn prudence would his voice assume. 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the while 
But now reniembranoe whispers o'er 
Tbtmn nire^n** scarcely mark'd befive. 



Say — that his bodings came to pass. 
And he will start to hear their truth, 
And wish his words had not been soot 
Tdl him, unheeding as I was, 
Through many a busy bitter scene 
Of all our golden youth had been, 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do toot ask him not to blame. 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame 7 
I do not ask him not to mourn, 
Such cold request mi^ht sound like scorr 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier 7 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold ! 
The wither'd frame, the niin'd mind. 
The wreck by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a Kattcr'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 

* 4f * * * * 

** Tell me no more of fancy's gleam. 
No, father, no, 't was not a dream ; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep. 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
I wish'd but for a single tear, 
As something welcome, new, and dear : 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still — 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
I would not, if J might, be blest ; 
I want no paradise, but rest. 
'T was then, I tell tlice, father ! then 
I saw her ; yes, she lived aga'm ; 
And shining in her white symar,*' 
As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
D'unly I view its trembling spark : 
To-morrow*s night shall be more dark , 
And I, before its rays appear, 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wonder, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
And clasp her to my desperate heart * 
I clasp— what is it that I clasp 7 
No breathing form within my grasp, 
No heart that beats reply to mine. 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much. 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch 7 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow prest. 
They ihrink upon my k>ii«];y breant ; 



THE GIAOUR. 



143 



TclMifl^ is there! in nlenoe atandi, 
And beckons whb beseedung handf ! 
With braided hsir, and brigfat-UMk 
1 knew *i was filse she could notdiel 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I nw him buried where he feO ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
Frooi evth ; why then art thou awake? 
They loid me wild wavea rolTd abofe 
TIm face I new, the form I love ; 
TVr told mo— *t was a IkideouB tale ! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue woukl fiul : 
IT true, and from thine ocean-caTO 
Thou coro*st to claim a calmer graTe, 
Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
Tin brow that then will bum no more; 
(VpUcethemon my hopeless heart: 
Boi, ihspe or shade ! whatever thoa art, 
h BRcy ne*er again depart ! 
Or &rdier with ihec bear my soul, 
UMawindscan waft, 'v Waters rcA! 



"Sad) is my name, and such my tale. 

Cosfessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
Hub glazing eye could nerer shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
And, siTe the cross above my head, 
Be Dother name nor emUem spread, 
Bj plying stranger to be read, 
Or Kay the passing pilgrim's tread." 
He ptss'd— nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Stve what the father must not say 
^ho shrived him on his djring day : 
TUi broken talc was all vre knew 
or her he loved, or him he slew. ** 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 13^ line S. 
That tomb which, glsamioff o*sr the cUffl 
Atood) above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
"Vpoaed (he sepulchre of Themistodes. 

Note 2. Page 192, line 2S. 
8ahaoa of the nightiDiisle. 
1^ attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a 
*<l-boim Persian fable. If I mistake not, the « Bul- 
^ of a dxNisand tales" is one of his appellations. 

Notes. Page 132, line 40. 
Tin the gay marimir'i guitar. 
IVe |rmtar is the constant amusement of the Greek 
^ by night : with a steady fair wind, and during a 
^ it is accompanied alwajrs by the voice, and often 
^daDciDg. 

Note 4. Page 133, line 40. 
Where cold obstruction*! apathy, 

"Ay, but to die and go we know not where. 
To ha in cold ofasiraetioa.** 

AstIILJJBlAb£ 



Note 6. Page 133, line 48. 
The irM, last look by death reveal*d. 
I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op 
portumty of witnessing what is here attempted in de- 
scription, but those who have, will probably retain a 
painful remembrance of that singular besuty which 
pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the dead, 
a few hours, and but for a few hours, after *' the spirit 
is not there." It is to bo remarked, in cases of violent 
death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always 
that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the 
sufferer's character ; but in death from a stab the couih 
tenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferodty, and 
the mind its bias to the last. 

Note 6. Page 133, line 110. 
Slaves— nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
Athens is the property of the IQslar Aga (the slave 
of the seraglio, and guardian of the women), who ap- 
po'mts the Waywode. A pander and eunuch — these 
are not polite, yet true appellationi-HDOw govemt the 
gvcemor of Athens ! 

Note 7. Page 134, line 23. 

*T ii calmer than thy heart, yoong Giaoor. 
InfidoL 

Note 8. Page 134, line 58. 
In echoes of the far tophaiks. 

''Tophaike," musket. — ^The Bairam is announced 
by the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the Moequee, 
and the firing of aU kinds of small arms, loaded with 
haU^ proclaim it during the nighL 

Note 9. Page 134, line 84. 
Swift as the huri'd on high jerreed. 
Jerreed, or Djerrid, a bhmted Turkish javefin, iHaeb 
is darted from horseback with great force and predaon. 
It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans ; but I 
know not if it can be called a manly one, sbkce !he most 
expert in the art are the Black Eunuchs of Constanti- 
nople—I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was 
the most skilful that came within my observation. 

Note 10. Page 134, line 115. 
He came, he went, like the aimoom. 
The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, 
and oflen alluded to in eastern poetry. 

Note 11. Page 135, line 47. 
To blesi the sacred *' bread and sah." 
To partake of food, to break bread and salt with 
your host, insures the safety of the guest; even though 
an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. 

Note 12. Page 135, line 55. 
Binee his turbsn was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 
I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality 
are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and, to say 
truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The 
first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a pane- 
gyric on his bounty ; the next on his valour. 

Note 13. Page 135, line 59. 
And lilver-sheathed atagnac. 
The ataghan, a long dagger worn \% ith pistols m uie 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally oC siWex*, DVk. 
•JDong the wealthier, g;ilt, or of (old* 



144 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 14. Paj^e 135, line 61. 
An emir bjr his garb of green. 

Green ii the privileged colour of the prophet's nu- 
merocui pretended descendants ; with them, as here, 
faith (the bamly inheritance) is supposed to supersede 
the necessity of good works : they are the worst of a 
fwy indifferent brood* 

Note 15. Page 135, line 62. 
"Ho! who art thoul — thu lowsalam," etc. 

SalamaleikoumlaleikoumsaUun! peace be with yoo ; 
be with you peace— the salutation reserved for the 
bithAil : — to a Christian, *' Urlanila," a good journey ; 
orsabanhiresero, sabanserula; good mom, good even ; 
and sometimes, " may your end be happy ;" are the 
nsual salutes. 

Note 16. Page 135, Ime 93. 
The iiMcct-queen of eaitcm ipring. 
The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmecr, the most 
rare and beautifd of the species. 

Note 17. Page 136, line 15. 
Or llva Hke ecorpion girt hj fire. 
Alhidmg to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so 
placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some 
maintain that the position of the sting, when turned 
towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement : 
but others have actually brought in the verdict, "Felo 
de se.** 'Die scorpions are surely interested in a speedy 
decision of the question ; as, if once fairly established 
as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live 
as long as they think proper, without being martyred 
for the sake of a hypothesis. 

Note 18. Page 136, line 30. 
When Rhamaxan*! last sun wu set 

The cannon at sunset close die Rhamazan. See 
notes. 

Note !9. Page 136, line 49. 
Bj pale Phingari's trembling light. 

Phingari, the moon. 

Note 20. Page 136, line 60. 
Bnrht as the Jewel of Giamichid. 
The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendour, named 
Schebgemg, " the torch of night ;" also, " the cup of 
the ■un,'' etc. — In the first editions, " Giamschid " was 
written as a word of three syllables, so D*Herbelot 
has it ; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dis- 
syllable, and writes ''Jamshid.** I have Icfl in the 
text the orthography of the one with the pronunciation 
of the other. 

Note 21. Page 136, line 64. 
ThoQgh on Al-Sirat'a arch 1 »lood. 
Al-Sirat, the bridge, of breadth less than the threcui 
of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must 
^taie into paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; 
but this is not the worst, the river beneath being heU 
nself^ into which, as may be expected, the unflkiiful 
and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a " facilis 
discenous Avemi,*^ not very pleasing in prospect to the 
iiexi passenger. Tlicre is a shorter cut downwards for 
'.ne Jews and Christians. 

Note 22. Page 136, line 69. 
And keep that portion of his creed. 

A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a thud of 



paradise to well-behaved women : butbyftroMMiM^ 
number of Mussuhnans interpret the text fbwtlM 
way, and exlude their moieties from heaven, 
enemies to Platonics, they cannot discon *<aiij 
of things" in the souls of the other sex, 
tfaflm to be superseded by the Houris. 

Note 23. Page 136, line 75. 
The young pomegranate's bkisaoms strew. 

An oriental simile, wluch may, perhaps, though fMf 
stolen, be deemed '< plus Arabe qu*ai Aralne." 

Note 24. Page 136, line 77. 
Her hair in hyaeinthioe flow. 
Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ;" as oomn w n t 
thought in the eastern poets, as it was amoof dtt 
Grreelai. 

Note 25. Page 136, line 87. 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan. 
'< Franguestan," Circassia. 

Note 26. Page 137, line 26. 
" Bismillah ! now the peril *8 past." elc. 

B'lsmillah— " In the name of God ;** the comoMBM- 
ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and «f 
praytf and thanksgiving. 

Note 27. Page 137, line 51. 
Then curPd his very board with ire. 

A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mosnl- 
man. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a 
diplomatic audience, were not less lively with indigmp 
tion than a tiger cat's, to the horrcH* of all the (krigo> 
mans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they flood 
erect of their own accord, and were expected evny 
moment to change their colour, b*it at last condesoeDdsJ 
to subside, which probably saved more heads than ihcf 
contained hairs. 

Note 28. Page 137, line 61. 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaan ! 
" Amaunt" quarter, pardon. 

Note 29. Page 137, line 70. 
I know him by the evil eye. 
The " evil eye," a common superstition in the L^ 
vant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet voy 
singular, on those who conceive themselves affected. 

Note 30. Page 137, line 124. 
A fragment of hi* palampore. 
The flowered shawls, gencrafly worn by penoBS of 
rank. 

Note 31. Page 138, line 51. 
Hifl ealpae rent — his caflan red. 

The <'Calpac" is the solid cap or centre part of tbi 
head-dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and Sam 
the turban. 

Note 32. Page 138, Ime 57. 
A turban carved in coarsoat atone. 
The turban, piliar, ami inscriptive verse, deeonlt 
the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemeUry 
or the wilderness. In the mountiuns you frequea^f 
pass similar mementos ; and, cm inquiry, you are ID' 
formed, that they record some victim of rdMflkMf 
plunder, or revenge. 

Note 33. Page 138, line 68. 
At aolenm aound of "Alia Hu !'* 

« Alia Hu !" the oonckidmg worda of tha Moesm*! 



THE GIAOUR. 



145 



wmjvr froni the lughett gaUeiy on the exterior 
nnwret. On a itill evening, when the Muezzin 
ine voice, which is frequently the case, the e^ 
aoleimi ukI beautiful beyood aU the bells in 



Note S4. Page 1S8, line T7. 
IVf come— tbeb kerehialSi green thej ware, 
ioikwing is part of a battle-song of the Turks: 
tb-^ see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, and she 
i handkerchief^ a kerchief of green ; and cries 
Cone, kiss me, for I krre thee,'' etc. 

Note 35. Page 138, line 83. 
Beneath aTcnffinff Monkir'i acythe. 
kv and Nddr are the inquisitors of the dead, 
whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate 
eparatory training for damnation. If the an- 
ire none of the dearest, he is hauled up with a 
and thumped down with a red-hot mace till prop- 
UBOoed, with a variety of subsidiary probations. 
See of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but 
d the number of orthodox deceased being in a 
roportion to the remainder, their hands are al- 
ilL 

Note 36. Page 138, line 84. 
To wander roand lost Eblit* tlirooe. 
I, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 

Note 37. Page 138, line 89. 
But first. OD earth, ss vampire senL 
Vampire supcrstitbn is still general in the Le- 
Honest Toumefort tells a long story, which Mr. 
y, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these 
solochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is 
aulacha." I recollect a nhole family being terri- 
• the scream of a child, which they imagined 
iroceed from such a visitation. The Greeks 
mention the word without horror. I find that 
colokas" is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation 
ast is so applied to Arseniiis, who, according to 

was afler his death animated by the Devil. 

I, however, use the word I mention. 

Note 38. Page 138, line 115. 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip, 
freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
lood, are the never^failing signs of a Vampire. 
Dries told in Hungary and Greece of theae foul 
■ are singular, and some of them most ineredihly 
d. 

Note 39. Page 140, line 36. 
Jt is as if the desert-bird, 
pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
tioo of feeding her diickens with her blood. 

Note 40. Page 141, line 36. 
Drep in whose darkly-bodinc ear. 
I saperstition of a second-hearing (for I never met 
iwnrij^t second-sight in the ea>it) fell once under 
n ooservation. — On my third journey to Cape 
la early in 1811, as we pamed through (he defile 
ids from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, 
ved Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, 
ining hin head upon his hand, as if in pain. Irode 
I inquired. " We are in peril," ha answered, 
t peril? we are not now in Albania, nor in the 



passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto ; there are 
plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriatcs have nnt 
courage to be thieves." — " True, Affendi ; but never- 
theless the shot is ringing m my ears." — " The shot !-^ 
not a tophaike has been fired this morning." — **1 hear it 
notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — as plainly as I hear your 
voice." — "Paha." — "As you please, AFendi; if it is 
vrritten, so will it be." — I left this quick-eared predesti- 
narian, and rode up to Basili,his Christian compatriot, 
whoso ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means 
relished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, re- 
mained a few hours, and returned leisurely, saving a va- 
riety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled 
the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer; Romaic, 
Amaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, 
in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. 
While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, 
Do^h was occupied ^xmt the columns. I thought he 
was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he 
had become a " Paiaocastro " man. " No," said he, 
" but these pillars inill be useful in making a stand ;" 
and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own 
belief in his troublesome faculty cf/ore-hearing. On our 
return to Athens, wc heard from Leon^ (a prisoner set 
ashore some days aHer) of the intended attack of the 
Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking 
place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was 
at some pains to question the man, and he described the 
dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party so 
accurately, that, with other circumstances, v^e could not 
doubt of hi* having been in " viUanous company," and 
ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a 
soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more 
musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- 
ment of the Amaouts of Bcrat, and his native moun- 
tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular 
race. In March 1811, a remarkably stout and active 
Amaout came (I believe the 50th on rhc same errand) 
to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : 
"Well, Affendi," quoth he, "may you live!— you 
would have found me useful. I shall leave the town fot 
the hills to-morrow ; in the winter I return, perhaps you 
will then receive me." — Dervish, who was present, 
remarked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, 
" in the mean time he will join the Klephtes" (rob- 
bers), which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they 
came down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in 
some town, where they are often as well known a* their 
exploits. 

Note 41. Page 142, line 38. 
l/ooks not to priesthood for relief. 
The monk*s sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no 
hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that 
it wnM of a customary length (as may be perceived from 
the interruptions and imeasiness of the penitent), and 
was deUvered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers. 

Note 42. Page 142, line 102. 
And shining in her white syniar. 
"Symar"— shroud. 

Note 43. Page 143, line 37 
The circumstance to which the above story rolaies 
was not very tmcommon in Turkey. A few years ago 
the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father cf 



146 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



hk Mo'i lupposed infidtolitj ; he asked wkh whom, and 
■he had the barbarity to give in a liat of the twelve 
handaoBMst woaMm in Yanina. They were aeized, fitst- 
ened up in aacka, and drowned in the lake the same 
night ! One of the guards who was present informed 
me, that not one of the victiros uttered a ciy, or riiowed 
a ■ji npt o m of tenror ai ao sudden a " wrench from aD 
we know, from all we kwe." The fate of Phrosine, the 
fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic 
and Amaout ditty. Tiie story in the text is one told of 
a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly for- 
gotten. I beard it by accident redted by one of the 
cofiee-honae story-teDers who abound in the Levant, 
and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and 
inlerpolatioos by the translator will be easily distin- 
guUied fixHn the rest by the want of Eastern imagery ; 



and I regret that my memory has retuned 
ments of die original. 

For the contents of some of the notes I 
partly to D'Herb^'ot, and pari y to that i 
and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, ** sobli 
« Caliph Vathek." I do not know from 
the author of that singular volume may ha 
materials ; some of his incidents are to be 
" Bibliotbfeque Oricntale ;" hot for oorrec 
tume, beauty of description, and power of 
it far surpasses all European imitations ; ai 
marks of originality, that those who have vii 
will find some difficulty in believing it to 1 
a translaticm. As an Eastern tale, even R 
bow before it; his ** Happy Valley " will 
comparison with the " Hall of Eblis." 



EUe fititft Of SlUfitfrnx; 



A TURKISH TALE. 



Had we never loved so kindlf. 
Had we nevwr loved lo blindly. 
Never met or never parted. 
We had ne*er been Iwoken-hearted. 

BURNS. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, 



SKHTIMERT OF RBOABD AMD RESPECT, B7 BIS GRATEFULLY OBLIC 

AND SIHCERB FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



CANTO L 



L 

Rnow ye the land where the cyprew and mjrrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime 7 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the tinlle, 

New meh into sorrow, now madden to crime ! 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine/ 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shme; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr,oppres8'd with perfimie. 
Wax ftint o'er the gardens of GuQ * in her bloom ; 
Whore the citron and olive are fairest (^ fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale nefsr a mute ; 
Where the tints of die earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Wliere the virgiits a>e soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine 7 
T is the clime of the east ; 't is the land of the sun — 
Can he smile on sudi deeds as his children have done 7' 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they 
teK. I 



IL 

Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
AppareUM as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest, 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest. 
Old Giaffir sate in his Divan : 

Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to slanders by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride, 
WtB pensive check and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

m. 

*'Let the chamber be dear'd."— The train du 
"Now call me the chief of the Haran 

With Giafiir is none but his only son. 

And the Nubian awaiting the bire's aw 
^ Haroun — when all the crowd that wi 
Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 
My chiM Zuleika's face unveilM !) 
Hence, lead my daughter from her tow) 
Her &te is fiz'd this very hour : 



THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 



147 



Ta ml to ber repeat my thought ; 
By me alooe be duty tau^t!" 

•■PKha! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say— > 
Thco to the tower had ta*en his way. 
Bat here youB* Selim silence brake, 

Fvst lowly rendering reverence meet: 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

fililstantfing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must«zpire. 
Era dare to sit beibre his sire I 

"Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My filter, or her sable guide, 
KDOfw— for the fiuilt, if fault there be, 
Wu mne ; then fall thy frowns on m e 
So Wrdily the morning shone. 

That— let the old and weary sleep— 
I could not ; and to view alone 

The fairest Kcnes of land and deep, 
With Done to listen and reply 
To thou^htg with which my heart beat high, 
Were irksome— for, whatever my mood, 
b sooth I lore not solitude ; 
loaZuletka^s slumber broke. 

And, as thou knoweat that for me 

SooQ turns the Haram*s grating key, 
Beftre the guardian riaves awoke. 
We to the cypress groves had flown. 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
There lingerM we, beguiled too long 
With M(jnoun*s talc, or Sadi*s song ; * 
Thl I, who heard the deep tambour^ 
Beat thy Divan*s approaching hour, 
To ibee and to my duty true, 
Wun'd by the sfmnd, to greet thee flew : 
Bat there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Kaj,&ther, rage not— nor forget 
IWnooe can pierce that secret bower 
Bat those who watch the women's tower." 

IV. 

"Sob of a slave !"^the Pacha said~ 
"Fron unbelieving mother bred, 
Tun were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
"^^ when thine arm should bend the bow. 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
ThfOKx, Greek in soul if not in creed. 
Most pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
^oold that yon orb, whose matin glow 
IV Sstless eyes so much adqure, 
^oold lend thee something of his fire! 
IIm, who wouldst see this battlcnnenl 
By Chrisaan cannon piecemeal rent; 
^ay, lamely view old StamboTs wall 
Befiire the dogs of Moscow fall, 
^v ttrike <Mie stroke for life and death 
A^UMt the curs of Nazareth ! 
^Met thy less than woman's hand 
A^Kme the distafi*— not the brand. 
^ Haroon ! — to my daughter speed: 
^ hark— of thine own head take liee d 
'fihw Zuleika oft takes wing— 
^■ee'aroo bow— it hath a ilriiy !** 



V. 

No sound from Sclim's lip was heud, 

At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

" Son of a slave ! — rcproach'd with fear! 

Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire?" 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career 
And glances even of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaflir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done ; 
He saw rebellion there begim : 

" Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
I mark theo— and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou darest not do : 
But if thy beard had manlier length. 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I 'd joy to see thee break a lance. 
Albeit against my own perchance.** 
As sneeringly these accents fell. 
On Sel'un's eyes he fiercely gazed : 

That eye retum'd him glance for glance. 
That proudly to his sire's was raised. 

Till Giaffir^s quailM and shnuik askance-^ 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
** Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work mc more annoy ; 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
For less would venture into strife 
W'hcrc man contends for fame and life— 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No— nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — ^he hath not heard — no mor»— 
I 'U watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab ^ to my sight. 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh I more than even her mother door. 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet, as the dcscrt-fountoin^s wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca^s shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now. 

VI. 

Fair, as the first that fell of womankind. 

When on that dread yet lovely seqicnt smilmg, 
Whose image tiion was stamp'd upon her mind-- 

But once beguiled — and ever more hei^iiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too tronsccndfnt virion 

To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams EI vsian. 

And paints the lost on earth revived m hoavoo . 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pun, 10 the prayer which duidhood wWku «)bcvi%- 



(48 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Wai Al b t he daughter of that rude old chief, 
Who net the maid with tears — ^but not of grieC 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one sparic of bcauty^s heavenly ray 7 
Who &&Hk not feel, until his failing sight 
Fuiti faito dhnness with its own delight, 
His duuiginf cheek, bis sinking heart confess 
Tht BBght — the majesty of loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika^— such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone : 
The Bffat of love, the purity of grace. 
The i^ad, the music breathinj; from her face,* 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole- 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently-budding breast ; 

At one kind word, those arms extending, 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaflir felt 
His purpose half within him melt : 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart, though stem, could ever fed; 
AflTection chainM her to that heart; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

vn. 

" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress. 

In losing what I love so well. 

To bid thee with another dwell : 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet (he line of Carasman* 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
F^rst of the bold Timariot bands 
Tlial won and well can keep their lands. 
Enonjgh that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ : 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dowor: 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan. 
And teach the messenger* what fate 
Tha bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's wiU ; 

AH that thy sex hath need to know : 
T was mine to teach obedienee still— 

The way to love thy lord may show." 

vin. 

In Silence bowd the vir«rin's head; 

And if hei eye was fillM with tears. 
That stifled teeiing dare not shed, 
And changed her diedk from pale to red, 

And red to pale, ai through her ears 
Those winged wortls like arrows sped. 

What could such be but maiden fears? 
So bright the tear in beauty's ey^ 
Lore half refreii to kin it diy ; 



So sweet the blush of bashfulncss. 

Even pity scarce can wish it less! 

Whatever it was the sire forgot ; 

Or, if rememberM, mark'd it not ; 

Thrice clappM his hands, and callM 
Resigned his gem-adomM Chibouk 

And mounting featly for the mead, 
With Maugrabee ' * and Mamaluk 
His way amid his Delis took,'* 

To witness many an active deed 

With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 

The Kislar only and his Moors 

WatchM well Uie Haram's massy do« 

IX. 

His head was leant upon his hand. 

His eye lookM o'er the dark-blue \ 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughtt 
Careering cleave the folded felt " 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd 
Nor heard their OUahs '* wild and kw 

He thought but of oki Giaffir's dai 
X. 
No word from Seliro's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika^s thought bespoke : 
Still gazed he through the lattice grat 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sodate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was tum*d, 
But little from his aspect leani'd : 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart alarm'd or weak. 
She knew not why, forbade to sfieak, 
Yet speak she must — but when essa; 
** How strange he thus should tura a* 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly tlirough the 

And watch'd his eye — it still was i 

She snatch'd tlic urn wherein was 
The Persian Atar-gul's ' * perfume. 
And sprinkled all its odours oVr 
TTie pictured roof* and marble floor 
The drops, that through his glittering 
The playful girl's appeal addrcst. 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew. 
As if that breast were marble too. 
"What, sullen yet? it must not be— 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this fiom thee !" 
She saw in curious order sot 

The faircRt flowers of Eastern lan( 
" He loved them once ; may touch tl 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thouglu was hardlv brea 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wrci 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy ibrm at Selim's feet : 
" Thta rose to calm my brother's can 
A meMtge from the Bulbul ■' bears ; 
It saya to-night he wiU prolong 
For Sefim's ear his sweetest song ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



149 



And though his note is aoroewhat Btd, 
Hell try for once a strain more glad, 
Widi focne faint hope his alter'd lay 
Hay nng these gloomy thoughts awaj. 

XI. 

"What! not receive my fboTish flower? 
Nay then I am indeed unbleflt : 

On me can thus thy forehead lower? 
Aod koo\«-'»t thou not who lores thee best ? 

Oh, Seiim dear ! oh, mare than dearest! 

Say, is it me thoa hat'st or fearest ? 

Come, lay thy head upon my breait, 

Aod I wriQ kits thee into rest, 

Saxffi words of mine, and songs must fail 

Even from iiqr fiiUed nightingale. 

I knew our sire at times was stem, 

But this from thee had yet to learn : 

Too well I know he lores thee not ; 

Ba ii Zulcika*s love (orgot ? 

Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan— 

Hiis kinsman Bey of Carasman 

Perhaps may prove umm foe c^ thine. 

Vwy I fwcar by Mecca's shrine, 

If dbhncs that ne^cr approach allow 

To woroan^a step admit her vow, 

Without thy free consent, command. 

The Sultan sthoukl noC haTO my hand ! 

Think'st thou that I ooold bear to part 

With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 

Ah ! were I severed from thy side, 

Where vcre thy friend — and who my guide 7 

Yean have not seen, time shall not see, 

The hoar that tears my soul from thee: 

Evea Azrael,'* from his deadly qoirer 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 
Our hearts to undivided dust !" 

XII. 

HeSivd— he breathed— he moved — he f^ ; 
Hi raised ibe maid from where she knelt : 
Kilmce was gone — his keen eye shone 
Wid) thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
Widi thooj^ts that burn — in rays that melt. 
As die abeam late concealM 

By the fringe of its willows ; 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the h^t of its billows ; 
^the boh bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flashed the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A w^horse at the trumpet's sound, 
^ lioD roused by heedless hound, 
^ ^jnni. waked to sudden strife 
Bt graze of iU^direetod knife, 
^1 not to more oonvulnve life 
"^ he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
^ aD, before represts'd, bctrayM : 

^ow thou art mine, for ever mine, 
Witii Ufe to keep, and scarce with life refign ; 
!*ow thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
^^Kiogh sworn by one, hath bomid as both. 
^^ foodly, wisely hast thou done ; 
1^ TOW hath saved more heads thn i^M : 
BiAhJeneh iKit thou — thy simplest tren 
Ciaini iQore ifQin me than tenderiMM; 



I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That clusters round thy forehead tutf 
For all the trea»ure« buried far 
Within the caves of latakar." 
This morning clouds upon me lowered, 
Reproaches on my head were showvr'd. 
And Giafiir almost called me coward ! 
Now I have motive to he brave ; 
The 8<Mi of his neglected slave- 
Nay, start not, *t was tiie term he gave— 
May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
His son, indeed ! — 3ret thanks to thee. 
Perchance I am, at least shall bo ; 
But let our plighted secret vow 
Be only known to us as now. 
I know the ^vretch who dares demand 
From GiaflUr thy reluctant hand ; 
More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul. 
Holds luA a Musseliro's '° control : 
Was he not bred in Egri|>o 7 *i 
A viler race let Israel show ! 
But let that pass— to none bo told 
Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold 
To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
I 've partisans for peril^s day : 
Tliink not I am what I appear ; 
I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near. * 

XIII. 

" Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This mom I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
My love thou surely knew*st before, 

It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To Kce thee, hear thee, near tlicc stay^ 

And hate the night I know not why. 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with tiieo to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, tliy li{)s to kiss, 
Like this — and this — no more than this ; 
For, Alia I sore thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing 7 
My own have nearly c&ught the same. 

At least I feei my cheek too blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste, thy wealth. 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
And lighten half thy poverty ; 
Do all but close thy dying eye. 
For that I could not live to try ; 
To these abne my thoughts aspire : 
More can I do, or thou require 7 
But, Selim, thou must answer why 
We need so much of mystery 7 
The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; 
Yet what thou mean'st by • arms ' and * fricmts 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaflir should have hoard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wTalh would not revoke my wonl • 

But s'lrely ho wouiu icavc nic free. 

Can this food wiih seem stxangt iiv iiw« 



150 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To be what I hav« ever been? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
fVam simple childhood's earfieat hour 7 

What other can she seek to tee 
Tlian thee, companion of her bowery 

Tho partner oif her infancy ? 
lliese cherishM (houghta with life begun, 

Sftj, why must I no more aTow 7 
What chan^ ia wrought to make me ahon 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now7 
To meet the gazo of strangor*! eyea 
Ow law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thooght of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree ! 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compeQ'd 
To wed with one I ne'er behdd: 
This wherefore should I not reveal 7 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
AUah 1 forbid that e'er he ought I 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like ini. 
If then such secrecy be crime. 

And such it feels while luridng here ; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time. 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah I yonder see the Tchocadar,** 
My (ather leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet h'u eye- 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why 7** 

XIV. 
** Zuleika! to thy tovior's retreat 
Betake thee— Giaffir I can greet; 
And now with him I fain must prate 
Of finnans, imposts, levies, state. 
There 's fearful news from Danube's banks ; 
Our Vizier nobly thin, his ranks, 
For which the Giaour may give him thanks I 
Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
Such costly triumph to repay. 
But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath wam'd the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come : 

Then aoSHy firom the Haram creep 

Where we may wander by the deep : 

Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
Nor diese will rash intruder climb 
To fiat onr words, or stint our time, 
And . ue doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feeL 
Than shalt thou learn of Selim more 
TImb thou hast heard or thoogbt before ; 
IVuit me, Zuleika— fear not me ! 
Thoa know'st I hold a Harare key. * 
•* Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 

Did word Uke this " 

** Delay not then ; 
I keep the key— and Haroun's guard 
Have mnne, uid hope of man reward. 
To'Pifht, Zuleika, thou shaH hear 
My tsif, my purpose, and my fear: 
lamoot, kvvel what I appear." 



CANTO IL 



I. 

The winds are high on HeDe's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water 
Wh«i Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave. 

The lonely hope of S«Aos' dan^tei 
Oh ! when alone akmg the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking fcas 
And shrieking sea-birds wam'd him he 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go ; 
He could not see, he would not httr 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love. 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang wA Hero's song, 
'* Te waves, divide not lovers long !" 
lliat tale u old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as t 

n. 

The winds are high, and Hello's tide 
VUXIb darkly heaving to the main ; 
And night's descending shadows hide 
That field with blood bedew'd in va* 
The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign. 
All— save immortal dreams that could 
The blind oki man of Scio's rocky ish 

ni. 

Oh ! yet— for there my steps have be 

These feet have press'd the sacred 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath 
MinstreU with thee to rouse, to moil 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that around the undoubted sceof 

Thine own " broad Hellespont " ** 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gazo denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Helle's strc 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 

That moon, which shone on his high 

No warrior chides her peaceful bean 

But conscious shepherds bless it si 

Their fkxrks are grazing on the naour 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrc 

That mighty heap of gather'd groun 

Which Ammon's** son ran proudly i 

By nations raised, by monarchs cnm 

Is DOW a lone and nameless barrov 

Within — thy dwelling-place how n 

Without— can only strangers breathi 

The name of him that tooM beneath * 

Dust long outlasts the sKmed stone. 

But thouH-thy very dust is Konet 



THE BRroE OF ABYDOS. 



151 



V. 

Lale, late to-niffat will Dian cheer 

Tbe twain, and chase the boatman*! fear; 

TiO then— no beacon on the diff 

Maj ihape the oooree of strug^img ildfi*; 

The icatier'd hghts that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, hare died awajr; 

Tbe ody lamp of this lone hour 

b glimnenng in 2Euleika*s tower* 

T«! there is light in that lone chamber, 
And o'er her nlken otlooaan 
An thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 
O'er which her faiiy fingers ran ; ** 
Kev these, mth emerald rays beset, 
(HowGouki die thus that gem iorget?) 
Her mother's sunted amulet,*' 
Wlienon engrsTed the Koorsee text, 
Cadd BDooth this life, and win the next; 
Aad bj her Comboloio ** lies 
AKonn of illumined dyes ; 
Aad nuiy a bright emt^son^d ibyme 
By Pernan scribes redMn'd from time; 
Aad o'er those scrolls, not oA so mote, 
Redines her now ne^ected lute ; 
Aad roond her lamp of firetted gold 
BkmB flowcn in urns of China's mould ; 
lite ridiest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sbecraz* tribute of perfume ; 
AB that can eye or sense deli^ 

Are {ather'd in that gorgeous room: 

Bat yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell tbe sprite, 
Whit doth she hence, and on so mde a night? 

VI. 

Wnpt in the darkest saMe vest. 

Which none save n<^lest Moslem wear, 
To latrd from winds of heaven the breast 

A« heaven itself to Selim dear, 
Withcaadous steps the thicket threadin|^ 

AslMrting oft, as through the glade 

TIa guit its hollow moanings made, 
TV OB dw nnootber pathway treading, 
More fiee her timid bosom beat. 

The mud pursued her nlcxA guide ; 
Aad ihoogh her terror urged retreat, 

Huw eookl she quit her Sdim*s side? 

How teadi her tender lips to chide? 

VII. 

Tbqr reached at length a grotto, hewn 

Bj Nature, but enlarged by art, 
Where oA bar lute A» wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran oonn*d apart; 
^ oft in yomhful reverie 
Shedreain*d what Paraihse nught be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
^« prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
Bat Sdiin*t mansion was secure, 
^or deemed she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worids of bhss, 
^itboot Aer, roo«l bdoved in this! 
^^! who so dear with him could dweJB? 
^^'Ut Houri foothe him half so weU? 



vni. 

Since last sho Waited the spot 

Some change scem'd wrought within the grot 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light: 

Hiat brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects feU. 

There arms were piled, not such as wi^ 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hih. 

And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean ? she tumM to see 

HerSeliro— "Oh! can this be ho ?'* 

IX. 

His robe of pride was thrown aside. 

His brow no high-crownM turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red. 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples vrore ; 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem. 
No longer gUtter'd at his waist. 
Where pistols unadom'd were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote . 
Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and boime 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and time, and hand. 
All that a careless eye could see 
In bun was some young Galiong^** 

X. 

<* I said I was not what I secm'd ; 

And now thou seest my words were true 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd. 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 't were vain to hide ; 
I must not see thee Osman^s bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, lot time, truth, and [)cril prove : 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother ! " 

XI. 

" Oh ! not my brother !— yet unsay — 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To moiun — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth 7 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more I 

My sinking heart foreboded ili ; 
But know me all I was before. 

Thy nster^-friend— Zuleika stilL 



152 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thoii IccTst me horo perchance to Idll ; 

If thou hast eouso for vcngoanoe, Me ! 
My breast is oflfcrM— take thy fill I 
Far better with the dead to be 
Than live thui notiiin); now to thee ; 
Perhaps far worve^ for now I know 
Why Giadir always seemM thy foa; 
And I, aliLs ! am Giaffir^s child, 
For whom thou wcrt contemned, reriled* 
If not thy sister — wouldst thou savo 
My life, Oh ! bid me be thy slave I" 

XII. 

<*My slave, Zulcika !~nay, I*m thine: 

But, gentle love, this transport cafan. 
Thy lut shall yet be linkM with mine; 
I swear it by our Pro|}het*s shrine, 

And be that thought thy torrow't bebn. 
So may the Koran ** verse display'd 
Cpon Its steel direct my Made, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widonM, not divided. 

Although thy sire *s my deadlieit (be. 
My father was to GiaflSr all 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
That brother wrought a brother's &I1, 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And liilPd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
Ho rearM me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain ; '* 
He watcliM me like a lion's whelp, 

That gnaws and yet may break his diain. 

My fiOher's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take ; 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
How Gaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 

" How first their strife to rancour grew, 

If love or envy made them ibes, 
It matters little if I knew ; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repoee. 
In Mvar Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remember'd yet in Bosniac song. 
And Paswan's *^ rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such gi*est : 
His deatli is all I need relate. 
The stem effect of Giafiir's hate * 
And how my birth disclosed to roe, 
What'er beside it makes, hath made roe free. 

XIV. 

*< When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At Inst for power, but first for life, 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachaa ralfied roimd the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command 
Each brother led a separate band ; 



They gave their horsetails'* to the wi^ 

And, mustering in Sophia's plain, 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post isap 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words 7 the deadly bow^ 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd mad gives, 
With venom, subtle as his soul, 

I^smiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Rorlincd and feverish m the bath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To c|ucnch his tlurst had such a cap: 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught,'' nor needed noit 
If thou my talc, Zuleika, doubt. 
Call Ilaroun — he can tell it ouL 

XV. 

<*The deed once dime, and Paswan's fta( 
In |Mirt suppre9s'd, though ne'er sabdued, 
Abdallah's pachalick was gain'd : 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procurelbr worse thaa nsn- 
Abdallah's honours were (Gain'd 
By him a brother's murder siain'd ; 
'T is true, the purchase nearly drabi'd 
His ill-gnc iressure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence 7 Survey the « 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow t 
Why roe the stem usurper spared. 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace: 
He cannot curb hi^ haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

" Within thy father's house are fees ; 

Not all who break his bread are tme : 
To these should I my birth disck)se, 

His dap, his very hours were few. 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

Tliis tale, whose close is almost nigh: 
He in Abdallah's palace grew, 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here— he saw him daib: 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ! das * too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

Wiih foes subdued, or friends betray'd. 
Proud (viaffir in high triumph sate. 
Ho led me helpless to his gate. 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To save the Ufe for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and earh, but most from dm; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed hetoofniin 



THE BRI3E OF ABYDOS. 



153 



To this our AMatic nde, 

Fv from our Mats by Dsnnbc'f dde, 

With none hfot Haroun, who reteins 
Such knowledge— «Bd the Niriwui fedi 

A tyrant's secrets are baft dnms 
From which the cftptnre gUuQj sieab^ 
And Uus and more to me repeals : 
Such stiD to guilt joat Alia aendi^- 
Slaves, tools, accomplicea-^io fiienda! 

xvn. 

" AD this, Zaleika, banhlj soandf; 
But harsher stiU my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness woond^ 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I nw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet 19 it one I oft have worn, 

And kmg must wear: this Galking^e, 
To whom thy plighted tow is swoni, 

b leader of those pirate hordes, 
Wbose laws and byes are oo theif swords ; 
To bear whose desolatiup tale 
Would make thy wano^cheek more pale : 
TSoK aim thou see'st my band have brought, 
The hands that widd are not remote ; 
llus cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is filled— once quaff 'd, they ne'er repiiie : 
Our IVophet might forgive the slaves ; 

Tliey 're only infidds in wine. 

xvm. 

"What could I be? Proscribed at home, 

^ uimted U> a wish to roam ; 

^ bitless leftr-for Giaffir's foar 

I)eoied the courser and the spear— 

TboQshoA— Oh, Mahomet! how oft!— 

la fiill Divan the despot scoff'd. 

As if mjr weak unwilling hand 

Hetiued the bridle or the brand: 

He ever went to war alone, 

Ani pes! me here untried, unknown ; 

To H«oiB*s care with women left. 

By hope oablest, of fame bereft. 

vThile thoo — ^whose softness long endear'd, 

Tbouffh it unmann*d me, still had cheer'd— 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awiited'st there the field's event 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's slug^ah yoke, 
^^ captive, though with dread resigning. 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
^ Komise to rclura before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
^B Tain — my tongue cannot impart 
^1y ahnost drunkenness of heart, 
^^^ fint this liberated eye 
^urver'd earth, ocean, sun, and diy, 
-^' if my spirit pierced them through, 
^^ all their inmost wonders knew * 
Vj« W"rd alone can paint lo thee 

f^ more than feeling — I was free ! 

^«» for thy presence ceased to pine ; 

^* worid->^miv — heaven itself was nune ! 

The AaSlap of a trusty Moor 
^'«>f<?'d me from this kUe shore; 
P 25 



I long'd to see the isles that gem 

Old Ocean's purple diadem : 

I sought by turns, and saw them all ; ** 

But when and where I join'd the crew. 
With wh<Hn I 'm pledged to rise or fidi, 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee when the tale's complete. 

XX. 

*' 'T is true, they are a lawless brood. 
But rough in form, nor mOd in mood ; 
And every creed, and every race. 
With them hath found — may find a place : 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chiefs command ; 
A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall. 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than even my own intents. 
And some— and I have studied all 

DistingtiishM from the vulgar rank. 
But chiefly to my council call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frnnk — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire. 
The last of Lambro's '^ patriots there 
Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch the Rayahs *• from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew; 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Ay! let me like the ocean-patriarch '' roam. 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home I '• 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are more than cities and serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the gale. 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow- 
But be the star that guides the wanderer, thou ! 
Thou, my Zulcika, share and bless my bark ; 
The dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away. 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wafl 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call : 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 
"Hiat steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
Dear — as his native song to exile^s ears. 
Shall sound each tone thv lons>Ioved voice endears 
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
Blooming as Aden"*' in its earliest hour, 
A thoui^nnd swords, with SelimV in-art and nand, 
Wait — wave — defend— <l<'stroy — ut thy comraanii ! 
Girt by my band, Zuleiku at my side, 
The s|K>il of nations shall l>edcck my bride- 
The harom's langtiid years of listl««s ease 
Are well re.si«rn'<l for cares — for joys like these . 
Not blind lo fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
Uonurober'd perils — but one only \ove^ 



IM 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Yet well my toils shall that fond breast r^pay. 
Though fortune frown, or falser (rionds betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
Should all be changed, to find thee iaitfafiil still ! 
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, fimily shown ; 
To thee be Selbn's tender as thine own ; 
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 
Once free, 't is mine our horde again to guide ; 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
Tet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
By fatal nature to man*s warring kind : 
Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 
I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
Power sways but by dirision — her resource 
The blest alternative of (raud or force ! 
Ours be the last : in time deceit may come, 
When cities cage us in a social home : 
There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 
Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 
And woman, more than man, when death or woe 
Or even disgrace would lay her lover low, 
Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame- 
Away suspicion 1-r— no< Zuleika's name ! 
But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
]No more remains to win, and much to fear : 
Tes, fear ! — ^the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
By Osman's power and Giaffir^s stem decree. 
That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 
Which love to->ught hath promised to my sail : 
No danger daunts die pair his smile hath blest. 
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms ; 
Earth — sea alike— our world within our arms ! 

Ay let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 

80 that those arms cling closer round my neck: 
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
The wars of elements no fears impart 
To bve, whose deadliest bane is human art t 
Th$rt lie the only rocks our course can check ; 
Men moments menace— t^iere are years of wreck ! 
But hence ye thoughts that rise in horror's shape ! 
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
Few words remain of mine my tale to close ; 
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
Tes — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decl'me 7 
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine 7 

XXI. 

" Ifis head and faith firom doubt and death 
RetumM in time my guard to save ; 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while: 
And since, though parted from my band. 
Too seldom now I leave the land, 
No deed they 've done, nor deed shall d(^ 
Ere I have heard and doomM it too : 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
^ is fit I oftener share the toiL 
But now too tong I 've held thine ear ; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We 1mt« behind but hate uid fear. 



To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance hi» Ufe who gave thee thine. 
With me this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
AppailM by truths imparted now, 
' Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head [" 

XXIL 

Zuleika, mute and motionless. 

Stood like that statue of distress, 

When, her last hope for ever gone. 

The mother hardened into stone ; 

All m the maid that eye couki see 

Was but a younger Niob6. 

But ere her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay'd to speak, or look reply. 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 

Another— and anotheKkAnd another — 

< * Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my nwre than brod; 

Far, wide, through every thicket spread. 

The fearful lights are gleam'mg red ; 

Nor these alone — for each right hand 

Is ready with a sheathless brand. 

They part, pursue, return, and wheel 

With searching flambeau, shining steel; 

And last of all, his sabre waving. 

Stem Giaffir in his fury raving : 

And now ahnost they touch the cave— 

Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave? 

xxm. 

Dauntless he stood—" 't is come— sood pasU- 
One kiss, Zuleika— 't is my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash: 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept ; 

His pistol's echo rang on high. 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye !— 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth mv father's scimitar. 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 

Farewell, Zuleika !— Sweet ! retire: 
Yet stay within — here linger safe. 
At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not— lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 

Fcar'st thou for him ? — may 1 expire 

If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd ; 
No— though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel 7 
^o-.as each crest save Ide may feel !" 

XXIV. 

One bound he made, and gain'd tlte sand; 
Ahrcady at his feet hath sunk 



THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 



]o5 



The rorcmoBt of the pryiiif bend, 

A gaspinir head, a qiufeiing tmok: 
Anotner fidla — but round him doM 
A swsnmn^ circle of his foes; 
From rijEht Co left his pelh he deft, 

And almost met the meetinf wafe : 
Kn boat appears — not five oars' kngdi— 
His comrades strain with despsfate slreogth— 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save? 

His feet the fbremoat breakers kve ; 
His band are phm^ing io the bay, 
Their sabres glitler through the ipray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They stni^^e— mw they toudi the hmd I 
They come— *t is but to add to slaughter— 
His heart's best blood is en the water! 



Escaped (ram shot, unharm'd by ited, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to fed, 
Had Selim won, betray*d, beset. 
To where the strand and billows met: 
There as hb last step left the hnd. 
And the last death-blow deah his hand— 
Ah ! wherefcte did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vainT 
That pause, that iatal gaze he took, 

Hath doomed his death, or fizM hii chain. 
Sad proo^ in peril and in pain. 
How late wiD fever's hope remain ! 
His bade was to the dashing spray ; 
Bdund, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the baO— 
*< So may the foes of Gia/Gr fall l^ 
Whose vmce is heard 7 whose carbine rang? 
Whose bullet through the night-air tang, 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? 
Tii thine— Abdallah's murderer! 
IV father dowly rued thy hate, 
TV son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast the bk)od is bubbKng, 
Hm whiteness of the sea-^iam troubling— 
If tnght his Dps essay'd jo groan. 
The nishing bilbws choak'd the tone ! 

XXVI. 

Mom dowty roOs the ckrads away ; 

Pew trophies of the ii|;ht are there : 
The shouU that shook the midnight bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear. 
And fragmeitfs of each shivcr'd brand : 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd ; nor Ske remote 

A broken torch, an earless boat ; 
Aad tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelring to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
Til rent in twain— one dark-red stain 
IVe wave yet ripples o'er in Twn : 
But where is he who wore 7 
Ye! who would o'er his relics weep 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Sipami's steip, 
And cast on Lemnoe' shore: 



The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
OVr which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving bilow; 
That hand, whose motion is not life. 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife. 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levellM with the wav&«* 
What recks it, though that corse shaL lie 

Within a living grave 7 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner wonn ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had blod or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed. 

And nioum'd above his turban-stone, ^ 
That heart hath burst — ^that eye was ckMed— 

Tea — dosed before his own ! 

xxvn. 

By Hdle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — man^s cheek is pale : 
Zuleika! last of Giafhr's race. 

Thy destined lord is come too late ; 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wullch*' warn his distant ear 7 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
He Koran-channtcrs of the hymn of fate, 
'Die silent slaves with folded arms that wait. 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 

Tell liim thy tale ! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
That fearful moment when he lefl the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 
He was thy hope — thy joy — ^thy love— thine all— 
And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was stilL 

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
That grief— tltough deep— though fatal — was thy firal 
Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse I 
And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies 
The .worm that will not sleep— and never dies ; 
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night. 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes tho light. 
That winds around, and tears the quivering heart! 
Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart! 
Woe to thee, raj«h and unrelenting diief! 
Vainly thou hcap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed. 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy dauehter 's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam. 
The star hath set that shone on Hdle's stream. 
What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast ^hed ! 
Hark ! to tho hurried question of despair : 
"Where is my child 7" an echo answers — "Wher*** •• 

xxvin. 

Within the place of thousand tombs 
That ihioe beneath, inhile daxk «]bc^ 



156 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The sad but living cypress glooms 
And withers not, thou^ branch and leaf 
Are stompM with an eternal grief| 

Like eariy unrequited love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms 

Even in that deadly ^rove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by despair — 

So white— so faint — ^the sUghtest gale 
Might whiri the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vun— 

To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gcndy rears, 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That thb can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest*s withering hour. 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 

Nor woos the summer beam: 
To it the livelong night there singi 

A bird unseen — but not remote: 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His k>ng entrancing note ! 
It were the bulbul ; but his throat. 

Though mournful, pours not such a straki : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'T is sorrow so unmixM with dread. 
They scarce can bear the naom to break 

That melancholy spell. 
And longer yet would weep and wake. 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high, 
Expires that magic mckxly. 
And some have been who could believe 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive. 

Yet harsh be they that blame) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will aiiape and syllable its sound 

Into Zuleika's name/' 
'T is from her cypress' summit heard. 
That mehs in air the liquid word : 
*T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late wac laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fixM pillar to the shore ; 
For there, as Helle's legends tell. 
Next mom 't wsu found where Sclim fell ; 
LashM by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And there, by nic;ht, reclined, 't is said. 
Is scon a ghastly tiirban'd head : 
And hence extended by the bilk>w, 
T IS named llif ** P«ratc-nh:iiilom's pillow I" 
Whore first it lay thai mourning llowtr 
Hath tiuiirishM ; floi:nsheUi this hour, 
and dewy, coldly pure and p«le ; 
W9ti>itig bcMuty'M clmok at womm*9 tile! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 146, line 8. 
Wax famt o'er the gardeos of Gul in her bkwsi 
«Gul,'' the rose. 

Note 2. Page 146, tine 17. 

Can be smile on such deeds as his chiMren have doM T 

** fools made of fire, and chiMien of ths sua. 
With whom revenge b virtue.** 

T»Mms*9 Revenge 

Note S. Page 147, line 31. 
With Majooun's tale, or Sadi's song. 
Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of tbt 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

Note 4. Page 147, line 32. 
TtU I, who beard the deep tambour. 
Tambour, IHiriush drum, which sounds at sunria^ 
noon, and twilight. 

Note 5. Page 147, line 108. 
He tt an Arab to mf sight. 
The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compB- 
ment a hundred fdd), even more than they hate ths 
Christians. 

Note 6. Page 148, tine It. 
The mind, the music breathing fVom her free. 
This expression has met with objections. I wiD not 
refer to ** him who hath ik>C Music in his soul,*' but 
merely request the reader to recoQect, for ten seconds, 
the features of the woman whom he believes to be the 
most beautiful ; and if he then does not cotnprcheod 
fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall 
be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the 
latest work of the first female writer of this, peihaps 
of anf age, on the analogy (and the immcdiale com- 
parison excited by that analogy), between "pvntiiig 
and music,** see voL iii. cap. 10. Db L'Allexaoite. 
And is not this connexion still stronger with the origiiul 
than the copy? — with the colouring of nature than of 
art? After all, this is rather to be felt tnan described ; 
still I think there are some who will understand it, it 
least they would have done, had they beheld the coun- 
tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; 
for this passage is not drawn finotn imagination, but 
memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to ths 
earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only be- 
holds the reflection multiplied ! 

Note 7. Page 148, line 34. 

Bat jet the line of Carasman. 
Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Ogloo, n tbs 
principel landholder in Turkey : he governs Magnesia : 
those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, poes ess land at^ 
condition of service, are called 'Hmariots: they serr^ 
as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, aifi 
bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry • 

Note 8. Page 148, line 46. 
And teach the roMsenger what fkte. 
When a Pacha is suflSciendy strong to resist, tb^ 
single messenger, who is always the first bearer of ths ^ 
order for his death, is i>trangled instead, and sonK?' 
times five or six, one afler the other, on the sarr»< 
errand, by command of the lefraetory patient ; ii^ 
ilhi Gontni)«hiaift^veek or k>Til«k0 bovi, 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



157 



i^s respecuUe aftMlore, tmd m bowttnmg with 
greai oomplaceocy. In 1810, ■everml of tbeae presents 
wcrr exhibhed in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; 
uxng others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a 
tnn young man, cot off bj treachery, after a despe- 
Bie rasistaiice. 

Note 9. Pkige 148, line 65. 
Thrice eiapp'd his buds, and eaird his atoed. 
Clapping of lianda caUs the eenranta. The Turks 
hale a lupecflooua expenditure of voice, and they have 
BobeSa. 

Note la Page 148, line 66. 
Resifn'd his gem-adom*d chibooxiue. 
Chiboiiqae, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
■oath-piece, and sooietiniefl the ball which contains the 
les( B adorned with precious stones, if in possession 
cf the wealthier orders. 

Note 11. Page 148, Une 68. 
With Maugrabee and Mamalnke. 
Maograbee, Moorish mercenaries. 

Note 12. Page 148, fine 69. 
His way amid his Defis tsok. 
Deli, bravos who ibrm the forlcMrn hope of the cavalry, 
sad always begin the action. 

Note 13. Page 148, line 81. 

Careeroif cleave the fokled fek. 
A twisted fold cS fdt w tised fiu* scimitar practice by 
ht Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through 
t at a single stroke : sometimes a totigh Uirban is used 
fer the same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt 
javcfin, animated and gracefuL 

Note 14. Page 148, line 84. 
Nor beaid their Ollahs wild and load — 
oOOaK" AllaUAUah,the«Leifies,'> uthe Spanish 
pKli call them, the sound is OUah ; a cry of which the 
TWki, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, par- 
tkabriy during the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly 
ia bittie. Their animation in the Beld, and gravity m 
die chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, form an 
URBing contrast. 

Note 15. Page 148, line 103. 
The Peruan Atar-rors perfume. 
"Atsr^gul,'' ottar of roses. The P^vian is the 



Note 16. Page 148, line 105. 
Tbepictared roof and marble floor. 
Tbe cohng and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
Mnadman apartments are generally painted, m great 
liMisei, with one eternal and highly coloured view cf 
Costantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble 
CMeinptof perspective; below, arms, scimitars, etc, 
m ia general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. 

Note 17. Page 148, Una 121. 
A oieMSce from the Bulbul bears. 
Abas been much doubted whether the notes of this 
*Li*V of the rose," are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox^s 
''Bittks on the subject have provoked some learned 
^^^^nffxfsy as to the opmions of the ancients on the 
^^W^ I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, 
^'^t Utile inclined to the *<errare mallcm," etc, 
i Mr. Fox toot mistaken. 

mS 



Note 18. Page 149, line 34. 
Even Azrael, from hit deadly quiver. 
" Azrael "—the angel of death. 

Note 19. Page 149, line 67. 
Within tbe caves of Istskar. 
The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. See D'Hxm 
BSLOT, article Istakar, 

Note 20. Page 149, line 83. 
Uolds not a MuweUro'i cooUt)L 
Mussclim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha; 
a Way wode is the third ; and then come the Agas. 

Note 21. Page 149, line 84. 

Wm he not bred ia Egripo 7 

Egripo— the Ncgropont. According to the proverb^ 

the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the 

Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respective 

races. 

Note 22. Page 150, line 31. 
Ah ! yonder scu the Tchocsdar. 

** Tchocadar"— one of the attendants who precedes 
a man of authority. 

Note 23. Page 150, line 101. 
Thine own " broad ilelleapont '* atill daabet. 
The wrangling about this epithet, " the broad He*- 
lespont" or tlie "boundless IlcUespont," whether it 
means one or the other, or what it means at all, has 
been beyond all possibility of detail. 1 have even heard 
it disputed on the spot ; and, not foreseeing a speedy 
conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with 
swimming across it in tlie mean time, and probably 
may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the 
question as to the truth of **tlio tale of Troy divine" 
still continues, much of it resting upon the talismanic 
word "arccpof :" probably Homer had the same notion 
of distance that a coquette has of time, and when ha 
talks of boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by 
a like figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply 
specihes tlirce weeks. 

Note 24. Page 150, line 112. 
Which Ammon'ii son ran proudly round. 
Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar 
with laurel, etc He was afterwards imitated by Cara- 
calla in his race. It is believed that the last also 
poisoned a friend, named Fcstus, for the sake of new 
Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding on 
the tombs of i£sielc8 and Antilochiu ; tlie first is in 
the centre of the plain. 

Note 25. Page 151, line 12. 
O'er which hrr fairy fuiRerB ran. 
When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
which is slight, but not disagreeable. 

Note 26. Page 151, line 16. 
Her inuthcr*t saintfd ainulot. 
The belief in amulets engraved on gonis, or inclosed 
in golil boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, wurn 
round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the 
East. TheKoorsee (throne) ver«e in the second ch.ip. 
of the Koran describes the attributes of the mo«t High, 
and is engraved in tliis manner, and worn by me piuiiw, 
ai the moft eiteemed and lublime o( iIV aenXeoicana. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE CORSAIR. 



159 



Note4S. Pk^ ise, fine 47. 

Into Zoletka** auum. 

"And BJij toociM* that swUahU mto** mmet.** 

MJLTON. 

Fora bdief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form 
iffairds, we need not travel to the east. Lord Lyttleton^s 
fbost story; the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that 
Gtatfjt I. flew into her window in the sh^>e of a raven 



(see Orford^s Reminiscences), and many other instate 
ces, bring this superstition nearer home. The roost singu- 
lar was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing 
her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing-bird, lit- 
erally furnished her pew in the Cathedral with cages-full 
of the kind ; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in 
beautifying the church, no objection was made to bar | 
harmless folly. — For this anecdote, see Orford^s Letten. 



Sfie Cot^Ait; 



A TALE, 



> I sooi pensieri in loi dormir non ponoo. 

TAS80, Cmlo deeimo, Qgnualemmt IMenUa. 



TO 

THOaSAS BSOORE, ESQ. 

■T DEAR MOORE, 

I OEDicATC to you the last production with which I 
Aafl trespass oo public patience, and your indulgence, 
far tome years ; and 1 own that I feel anxious to avail 
Bfidf of this latest and only opportunity of adorning 
■f |>aj>es with a name, consecrated by imshaken pubUc 
principle, and the movt undoubted and various talents. 
WUe Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her pa- 
tiots: while you stand alone the first of her bards in her 
isfcsition, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, 
pennit one, whose only regret, since our first acqqaint- 
lace, has been the years he had kwt before it commenced, 
to sJd the humble but sincere sufirage of fiiendship, to 
lb voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove 
to Tou, that I have neither forgotten the gratification 
(Svimd fitNn your society, nor abandoned the prospect 
ofls renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows 
TOO to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It 
■ nid among those friends, I trust truly, that you are 
caeiged in the composition of a poem whose scene Mrill 
he liid in the East : none can do those scenes so much 
jottoe. The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- 
cesi and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and fcchng of 
her daughters, may there be found ; and Collins, when 
ke denominated his Oriental tus Irish Eclogues, was not 
tsire how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your 
wsfnation will create a wanner sun, and less clouded 
Ay; bat wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part 
of Toor national claim of oriental descent, to which you 
b&ie abeady thus fiu* proved your title more clearly than 
Ike most zealous of your country*s antiquarians. 

Hay I add a few words on a subject on which all men 
in w ppu se d to be fluent, and none agreeable? — Self. 
I bavs written much, and published more than enough 
' lodeaand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but for 
KM yms to come it u my intention to tempt no 
Ivthcr the award of " gods, men, nor columns." In 
•he present composition I have attempted not the most 
<^]ficak, but, perhaps, the best-adapted measure to our 
lanfusfT, the food oU and now neglected heroic couplet. 
Tke Maoza of Spenser is perhaps too sk>w and dignified 
faraanative; though I oonfeaa, it b the measure most 



after my own heart : Scott alone, of the present 
ration, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal 
fiuulity of the octo-syllabic verse ; and tliis is not the least 
victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in blank verse, 
Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons 
that shine along the dec|), but warn us from the rough 
and barren rock on which ihey arc kindled. The heroic 
couplet is not the most popular measure certainly ; but 
as I did not deviate into tlio other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public op'mion, I shall quit it without 
further apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification, in which I havo hitherto published 
nothing but compositions whose former circulation is 
part of my present and will be of my fiitxxk^ regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories m general, I 
should have been glaii to have rendered my personages 
more perfect and amiable, if |KK»ible, inasmuch as 1 
have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
responsible for their deeds and qualities than if aU had 
been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated aito the 
gloomy vanity of " drawing from self,** the pictures are 
probably like, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, 
those who know nic are undeceived, and those who do 
not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no 
particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; 
but I cannot help a little supnse, and perhaps amuse- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present 
instance, when I see several banls (far more deserving, 
I allow), in very reputable plight, and quite exempted 
from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, 
nevertheless, might be fuund with little more morality 
than ** The Giaour," and perhaps— but no-~I must admit 
Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as 
to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever 
<< alias" they please. 

If, however, it were worth while lo remove the mi- 
pression, it might be of some service to me, that the man 
who is alike the delight of his renders and his friends, 
the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits 
me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 

most truly, and affectionately, 
his obedient servant, 

BYRON, 

January 2, 1814. 



160 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO I. 



'-neouo magfrior doloro. 



Che rieordani del tempo folic« 

NelUmiueria 

DANTE. 



I. 

* O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea, 
OuF thoaghts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway— 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can teU ? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul weuld sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please— 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way 7 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That s^eks what cravens shim mth more than zeal. 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — ^to the rising InMom's inmost core, 
'Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foee-~ 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life ; 
When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife 7 
Let him who crawls cnamourM of decay. 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
Heave his thick breath, and shako his pained head ; 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 
Ours with one pang^-one bound— escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life may gikl his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, smcerely slied, 
When ocean shrouds »nd sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the rod cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day. 
When those who win at length divide the prey. 
And cry remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now .'" 

n. 

Su^h were the notes that from the pirate's isle. 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang t 'le while ; 
Such were the souiidif that thrill'd the rocks along. 
And unto ears as rugged seero'd a song ! 
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand. 
They game— carouse — converse— or whet the brand ; 
Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 
Ann careless eye the blood that dims its shine : 
Kf^pair uie boat, replace the helm or oar, 
Whiln others straggling muse along the shore ; 
For the wiU bird the busy springes set. 
Of spread beneath the sun the dripping net; 



Gaze where some distant sail a «p*d( «upplMi^ 

With all the thirsUng eye (^enterprise ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of tod, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil: 

No matter where — their chiePs allotment this, 

Thein to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief 7 — His name on every ihop* 

b famed and fear'd — they ask and know no mors. 

With these he mingles not but to command : 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er Masons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er fbr his lip the purpling cup they fill. 

That goblet passes him untastcd still— 

And for fiis fare — the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too.; 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest rooli 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits. 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense. 

His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 

** Steer to that shore!"— they saU. **I>o this! "— 't isdm 

"Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is woo. 

Thus prompt his accents and his actions still. 

And all obey and few inquire his will ; 

To such brief answer and contemptuous eye 

Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

m. 

*< A sail! — a sail !" — a promised prize to hope ■ 
Her nation — ^flag — how speaks the telescope 7 
No prize, alas ! — ^but yet a welcome sail : 
The Uood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes— she is ours — a home-returnino bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze !— nihe anchors ere the dark. 
Already doubled is the cape— our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
How gloriously her gallouit course she goes I 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes^ 
She walks the waters like a thing of life. 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck- 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck? 

IV. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 

The sail